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WORDSWORTH  COLLECTION 

MADE     BY 

CYNTHIA    MORGAN    ST.  JOHN 
ITHACA,   N.  Y. 


THE    GIFT    OF 

VICTOR    EMANUEL 

CLASS    OF    1919 
1925 


A  BOOK  OF  MEMORIES. 


A  Book  of  Memories 


GREAT   MEN   AND   WOMEN   OF  THE   AGE 


FROM    PERSONAL    ACQUAINTANCE. 


By    S.    C.    hall,    F.S.A.,    Etc. 


SECOND    EDITION. 


"  History  may  be  formed  from  permanent  monuments  and  records,  but  lives  can  only  be 
written  from  personal  knowledge,  which  is  growing  every  day  less  and  less,  and  in  a  short 
time  is  lost  for  ever." — Dr.  Johnson. 

"  We  have  undertaken  to  discourse  here  for  a  little  on  Great  Men,  their  manner  of 
appearance  in  our  World's  business,  how  they  have  shaped  themselves  in  the  World's  history, 
what  ideas  men  formed  of  them,  what  Work  they  did." — Carlyle  :  Hero  Worship. 


LONDON: 
VIRTUE  AND   COMPANY,  Limited,   26,  IVY  LANE, 

PATERNOSTER     ROW.  1 

1877.  i    I  .•  i\  - ,  i\  V 


i)o 


T^ 


LONDON  : 

PKIVTKM    BY    VIKTUE    AND    CO  ,  I.JMlTKn, 

CITV    UOAD. 


^t' 


THE    FEIENDS 

WHO      YET      EEMAIN      TO      ME, 

THESE    MEMOEIES 

OF 

THE    FRIENDS 

WHO   HAVE   PASSED   FEOM   EARTH, 


INTEODUCTION. 


]Y  opportunities  of  personal  intimacy  with  the  distinguished  men  and 
women  of  my  time  have  been  frequent  and  pecuhar.  There  are  few 
by  whom  the  present  century  has  been  made  famous  with  whom  I 
have  not  been  acquainted — either  as  the  editor  of  works  to  which  they 
were  contributors,'^  as  associates  in  general  society,  or  in  the  more  familiar  inter- 
course of  private  life. 

It  will  be  obvious  that  there  are  not  many  to  whom  the  task  I  undertake  is 
possible.  To  have  been  2^erscm(dly  acquainted  with  a  large  proportion  of  those  who 
head  the  epoch,  infers  a  youth  long  past,  yet  passed  under  circumstances  such  as 
could  have  been  enjoyed  by  few.  Some  of  whom  I  write  had  "  put  on  immortality  " 
before  the  greater  number  of  my  readers  were  born  :  one  generation  has  passed 
away,  and  another  has  attained  its  prime,  since  the  period  to  which  I  take  them 
back ;  for  I  write  only  of  the  Departed — only  of  those  who,  bequeathing  to  us  the 
rich  fruitage  of  their  lives, — • 


'  Leaving  us  heirs  to  amplest  heritages 
Of  all  the  best  thoughts  of  the  greatest  sages,"- 


teach  from  their  tombs,    for  ever  and   for  ever.  Peoples,  Nations,   and  Ages — the 
hundreds  of  millions  who  speak  the  Anglo-Saxon  tongue. 

My  aim   has  been  to  do  with  the  pen  what  the  Artist  does  with  the  pencil — to 
supply  a  series  of  written  poetkaits — a  purpose  that  may  be  accomplished, 

"  Whether  the  instruments  of  words  we  use. 
Or  pencil  pregnant  with  ethereal  hues  ; " 

and  thus  to  bring  before   my  readers  mighty  "makers"  of  the  past;  empowering 
them  to  realise,  or  correct,  the  portraits  they  have  drawn  in  their  minds  of   the 

*  The  Amulet,  from  1826  to  1836.  The  Nevi  Monthly  Magnzine,  from  1830  to  1836.  The  Booh  of  Gems  of  Poets  ond 
Artists  (1838),  to  which  nearly  all  the  then.  li\ing  Poets  contributed  autobiographies.  The  Art- Journal,  from  1839 
to  1876. 


Authors  whose  works  have  been  sources  of  their  solace,  their  instruction,  their 
amusement,  or  their  joy.  With  that  view  I  have  not  only  given  my  own  recollec- 
tions of  the  persons  pictured,  but  the  descriptions  of  others. 

If   in    these  "Memories"    there   be  found  any  value,  it  will    be    m  this — the 
leadhig  feature  of  the  Work. 

I  do  not  forget  that  at  the  Feast  of  Poets  my  seat  was  below  the  salt ;  but 

"  They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 

As  the  on-looker  at  a  banquet  will  observe  much  the  guests  may  fail  to  see— so  I 
hope  I  have  noted,  and  can  communicate,  many  incidents  and  facts  that  will  interest 
those  who,  when  they  read  the  Works  of  immortal  Authors,  desire  to  know  some- 
thing of  "  the  outer  man." 

I  have  generally  abstained  from  reference  to  the  Works  of  those  of  whom  I  give 
"  Memories,"  assuming  that  the  reader  is  sufficiently  acquainted  with  them.'^' 

These  "  Memories  "  will  derive  much  of  their  value  from  the  aid  I  receive  from 
my  wife.  We  have  worked  together  for  more  than  fifty  years  :  with  very  few 
exceptions  my  acquaintances  were  hers.  I  have  had  no  hesitation  in  availing  myself 
of  her  co-operation  in  this  undertaking ;  have  freely  quoted  her  views  of  the 
characters  I  depict;  and  occasionally  called  upon  her  for  her  "Memories"  to  add 
to  mine.  We  have  avoided  reference  to  ourselves,  except  in  cases  where  such 
reference  was  necessary  to  elucidate  the  text.  It  was  impossible  to  describe  our 
intercourse  with  the  people  we  have  known — with  whom  we  have  been,  more  or  less, 
associated — and  to  ignore  the  circumstances  by  which  such  intercourse  was  induced 
and  continued. 

We  anticipate,  however,  full  acquittal  of  egotism  or  presumption. 

It  may  be  desirable  to  add  that  we  have  never  kept  notes,  not  having  foreseen  a 
time  when  our  Ke collections  of  the  "  Great  People  "  with  whom  it  was  our  privilege 

*  I  have  frequently  given  to  Literary  Institutions  these  "  Memories  "  condensed  as  a  "Lecture."  Several  of 
them  have  been  published  in  the  Art-Journal.  Such  I  have  carefully  revised  ;  in  several  instances  subjecting  them 
to  the  corrections  of  persons  often  the  nearest  and  dearest  to  those  whose  portraits  I  have  given— by  whom  I  have 
been  materially  assisted,  and  whose  comments  have  greatly  encoui-aged  me  in  my  interesting  task  ;  taking  due  care 
—as  far  as  it  was  possible— to  secure  accuracy  for  my  statements,  descriptions,  and  details.  Thus,  I  submitted 
proofs— of  Moore  to  Mrs.  Moore  and  her  nephew ;  of  Southey  to  his  daughter  and  son-in-law  ;  of  Coleridge  to  his 
son,  the  Eev.  Derwent  Coleridge ;  of  Wordsworth  to  his  two  sons ;  of  Campbell  to  his  physician  and  executor, 
Dr.  Beattie ;  of  Wilson  to  his  daughter,  Mrs.  Gordon ;  of  Montgomery  to  his  fiiend,  John  Holland ;  of  Allan 
Cunningham  to  his  two  sons  ;  of  Thomas  Hood  to  his  son  and  daughter  ;  of  Maria  Edgeworth  to  her  brother  and 
her  nephew  ;  of  Horace  Smith  to  his  daughter  ;  of  James  Hogg  to  his  biographer  ;  of  Lady  Morgan  to  her  niece 
and  her  biographer,  Geraldine  Jewsbury  ;  of  Mrs.  Hemans  to  her  son  and  the  husband  of  her  sister  ;  of  Leigh  Hunt 
to  his  son  and  biographer,  &c.  &c.  &c. 


INTRODUCTION.  IX 


to  be  acquainted  migM  become  interesting  and  instructive.  Moreover,  we  have  pre- 
served but  few  of  tbe  many  letters  we  received.  It  was  our  rule  to  destroy  such  as 
we  thought  ought  not  to  be  retained  ;  we  have  given  freely  to  collectors  of  Auto- 
graphs ;  while,  with  a  carelessness  we  deplore,  we  have  destroyed  manuscripts  and 
communications  we  would  now  give  much  to  have  kept. 

The  homage  I  offer  is  to  the  past ;  the  heroes  I  worship  are  the  departed  ;  the 
friends  I  call  to  memory  are  those  of  whom  all  mankind  are  heirs, — Men  and 
Women  who  for  the  World's  behoof  have  "  penned  and  uttered  wisdom,"  and  Avho, 
"  by  written  records  "  which  the  Destroyer  can  never  "raze  out,"  have  inculcated 
the  great  lesson  so  happily  conveyed  in  four  expressive  lines  by  one  on  whom 
their  mantle  has  descended,  and  who  is  the  poet  of  England  no  less  than  of 
America  : — 

"  Lives  of  g:reat  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 
And  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  Time." 

Be  theirs  the  "Perpetual  Benediction,"  of  which  the  greatest  of  them  all  speaks — 
theirs,  who  have  made  mankind  then-  debtors  to  the  end  of  Time. 

S.   C.  Hall. 


NOTE   TO   THE   SECOND   EDITION. 


IINCE  the  first  edition  of  tliis  work  was  publisliecl — in  1871 — the  names 
of  many  illustrious  men  and  women  are  added  to  the  list  of  ' '  the 
depai-ted."  Among  them  are — the  first  Lord  Lytton,  "William  Charles 
Macready,  Bryan  Waller  Procter  ("  Barry  Cornwall"),  Livingstone, 
John  Forster,  Dr.  Guthrie,  Harriet  Martineau,  F.  W.  Fairholt,  Captain  Chamier, 
Colonel  Meadows  Taylor,  Sir  Charles  Wheatstone,  Edward  William  Lane,  Sir 
William  Wilde,  Eobert  Graves,  M.P.,  Peter  Cunningham,  Robert  Chambers, 
Hawthorne,  Charles  Knight,  Charles  Kingsley  and  Henry  Kingsley  ;  and  in  Art, 
Foley,  M 'Dow ell,  Westmacott,  Lough,  and  Noble  among  sculptors ;  and  the 
painters  Sir  Edwin  Landseer,  Sir  George  Harvey,  and  others. 

Most  of  those  I  name  were  my  contemporaries,  and  all  of  them  my  own 
personal  acquaintances  or  friends.  I  am  forbidden,  by  the  limited  size  of  this 
book,  to  add  to  the  Memories  it  contains.  Memories  of  them.  At  no  distant  period 
I  may,  however,  be  permitted  to  do  that  which  I  cannot  now  do ;  for,  if  life 
and  power  be  continued  to  me,  I  shall  publish  before  I  die  the  ' '  Eecollections 
OF  A  Long  Life."  It  is  only  just  to  say  I  was  stimulated  to  undertake  that 
work  by  Messrs.  Appleton,  the  eminent  publishers  of  New  York ;  and  I  hope 
I  may  do  it. 

Here,  it  must  suffice  to  state  that  I  was  a  Parliamentary  reporter  in  1823  ; 
that  I  became  a  member  of  the  Inner  Temple  in  1824;  and  that  I  knew, 
somewhat   intimately,   Ireland    sixty  years    ago,    having  resided    some  years  in 


XU  NOTE    TO   THE  SECOND  EDITION. 

that  country  in  my  early  youth. :  that  between  the  publication  of  my  first  book — 
in  1-820 — and  my  latest,  in  1 876,  there  are  fifty-six  years  ;  that  I  have  been 
an  editor  upwards  of  half  a  century ;  and  that  I  have  conducted  the  Art-Journal, 
which  I  originated  in   1839,  during  thirty-seven  years. 

My  memory  furnishes  me  with  much — as  to  events  and  persons — that  I 
humbly  think  cannot  fail  to  have  public  interest  sufficient  to  justify  the  under- 
taking that  will  mainly  occupy  the  residue  of  my  life. 

There  are  few  now  living  who  can  go  so  far  back  in  the  personal  history  of 
their  own  time ;  and  though  I  may  not  lead  my  readers  through  the  high- 
ways of  the  world,  I  have  reason  to  believe — and  to  expect — that  the  bye-ways, 
(they  may  be  such  by  comparison)  through  which  I  shall  hope  to  conduct  them, 
will  be  fertile  of  much  that  is  interesting  and  useful  during  my  lengthened  and 
active  career  as  "by  profession  a  Man  of  Letters." 


MEMOEIES 

(FROM   PERSONAL   ACQUAINTANCE) 

PAGE 

PAGE 

Thomas  Moore 

1 

Bernard  Barton   . 

.  180 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge     .          .     27 

Joseph  Wiffin 

.  182 

Edward  Irving 

.     48 

James  Fenimore  Cooper 

.  182 

Charles  Lamb 

'.     51 

Washington  Irving 

.  184 

William  Hone 

.62 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne  . 

.  184 

William  Godwin  . 

.     63 

N.  P.  Willis 

.  184 

Thomas  Noon  Talfourd 

.     64 

Lydia  H.  Sigourney 

.   184 

William  Hazlitt  . 

.     65 

Robert  Southey    . 

.   185 

Jeremy  Bentham  . 

.     66 

Caroline  Bowles  . 

.  198 

Hannah  More 

.         .67 

Walter  Savage  Landor 

.  208 

Robert  Hall 

.     77 

Sydney,  Lady  Morgan  . 

.  214 

Adam  Clarke 

.     79 

John  Banim  . 

.  227 

James  Montgomery 

.     81 

Gerald  Griffin     . 

.  229 

Robert  Montgomery 

.     89 

Samuel  Lover 

.  231      - 

John  Holland 

.     93 

George  Croly 

.  232 

JOSIAH    CONDER 

.     95 

Charles  Maturin  . 

.   234 

Ebenezer  Elliott    , 

.     97 

Richard  Lalor  Shiel    . 

.  234 

John  Clare  . 

.  107 

Thomas  Colley  Grattan 

.  235 

Maria  Edgeworth 

.  109 

James  Emerson  Tennent 

.  235 

Barbara  Hofland  . 

.  122 

Sheridan  Knowles 

.  236 

Grace  Aguilar 

.  124 

William  Carleton 

.  237 

Catherine  Sinclair 

.  126 

Francis  Mahony    . 

.  237 

Jane  and  Anna  Maria 

Porter        .   128 

Eyre  Evans  Crowe 

.    .  240 

Thomas  Hood 

.  185 

Robert  Walsh 

.  240 

Theodore  Hook     . 

.  147 

John  Edward  Walsh     . 

.  240 

Richard  Harris  Barhas 

I         .         .156 

Leigh  Hunt. 

.  243 

Tom  Hill      . 

.         .157 

James  and  Horace  Smith 

.  257 

William  Maginn    . 

.  158 

G.  P.  R.  James     . 

.  263 

John  Poole  . 

.  160 

L^TiTiA  Elizabeth  Landon 

.  265 

Thomas  Haynes  Bayly 

.  162 

Samuel  Laman  Blanchard 

.  282 

Amelia  Opie  . 

.  167 

Douglas  Jerrold  . 

.  285 

Elizabeth  Fry 

.  171 

William  Jerdan    . 

.  285 

xiv 

MEMORIES. 

1 

PAGE 

PAGE                      M 

William  Wordswobth   . 

.  290 

James  Hogg  . 

.  383 

John  Wilson 

.  320 

John  Galt    . 

.  396 

Thomas  Pringle    . 

.  331 

William  Motherwell  . 

.  397 

John  Gibson  Lockhaet 

.  332 

David  Macbeth  Moir     . 

.  398 

Sir  Walter  Scott 

.  337 

William  Edmonstone  Aytoun         .  398 

Francis  Jeffrey    . 

.  338 

Lady  Blessington 

.  399 

George  Crabbe 

.  340 

Sydney  Smith 

.  408 

Joanna  Baillie 

.  344 

Theobald  Mathew 

.  412 

Thomas  Campbell 

.  346 

Frederika  Bremer 

.  415            1 

Henry  Hart  Milman     . 

.  359 

Adelaide  Anne  Procter 

.  420            1 

Henry  Hallam 

.  361 

Allan  Cunningham 

•  422            1 

Lord  Macaulay 

.  361 

T.  K.  Hervey 

.  431 

Felicia  Hemans     . 

.  363 

Samuel  PtOGERS 

.  432 

Mary  Jane  Jewsbury    . 

.  372 

Mary  Russell  Mitford 

.  438 

Anna  Jameson 

.   374 

Ugo  Foscolo 

.  450 

Julia  Paedoe 

.   376 

Charles  Dickens  . 

.  454 

William  Lisle  Bowles 

.  377 

MEMOEIES    OF    AKTISTS 

(FROM 

PERSONAL    ACQUAINTANCE). 

PAGE 

PAGE 

Daniel  Maclise    . 

.  241 

Clarkson  Stanfield 

.  476 

Sir  Thomas  Lawrence  . 

.  405 

William  Muller  . 

.  477 

Benjamin  West     . 

.  464 

John  Constable    . 

.  479 

Martin  Archer  Shee    . 

.  464 

Sir  David  Wilkie 

.  480 

Charles  Lock  Eastlake 

.  465 

William  Allan     . 

.  481 

John  Henry  Fuseli 

.  466 

William  Etty 

.  481 

John  Flaxman 

.  466 

William  Mulready 

.  482 

J.  M.  W.  Turner 

.  467 

Francis  Danby 

.  483 

Benjamin  Puobert  Haydon 

.  468 

J.  D.  Harding 

.  483 

Samuel  Prout 

.  473 

C.  R.  Leslie 

.  484 

William  Hilton    . 

.  474 

Thomas  Uwins 

.  485 

David  Roberts 

.  474 

John  Gibson 

.  486 

John  Martin 

.  476 

James  Ward 

.  486 

&c.  &c.  &c. 

MEMORIES. 


THOMAS  MOOEE. 


'ANY  years  have  gone — more  than  half  a  century,  indeed — 
since  I  had  first  the  honour  to  converse  with  the  poet 
Thomas  Moore.  Afterwards  it  was  my  privilege  to 
know  him  intimately.  He  seldom,  of  later  years,  visited 
London  without  spending  an  evening  at  our  house  ;  and 
in  1845  we  passed  a  week  at  his  cottage,  Sloperton — his 
happy  home  in  Wiltshire. 

"  In  my  kalendar, 
There  are  no  wliiter  days ! " 

The  poet  has  himself  noted  the  time  in  his  Diary  (Nov. 

1846),  and  the  terms  in  which  he  refers  to  our  visit 

cannot  but  have  gratified  us  much. 
'  In  the  year  1822  I  made  his  acquaintance  in  Dublin^ 

while  I  was  a  casual  resident  there.  Moore  was  in  the  full  ripeness  of  middle  age  : 
then,  as  ever,  "  the  poet  of  all  circles,  and  the  idol  of  his  own."  As  his  visits  to  his 
native  city  ware  few  and  far  between,  the  power  to  see  him,  and  especially  to  hear 
him,  were  boons  of  magnitude.  It  was  indeed,  a  treat  when,  seated  at  the  piano, 
he   gave  voice  to  the  glorious  "Melodies"  that  are  justly  regarded  as  the  most 


valuable  of  his  legacies  to  mankind.  I  can  recall  that  evening  as  vividly  as  if  it  were 
not  a  seven-night  old ;  the  graceful  man,  small  and  slim  in  figure,  his  upturned  eyes 
and  eloquent  features  giving  force  to  the  music  that  accompanied  the  songs,  or  rather, 
to  the  songs  that  accompanied  the  music. 

Dublin  was  then  the  home  of  much  of  the  native  talent  that  afterwards  found  its 
way  to  England  ;  and  there  were  some — Lady  Morgan  especially — whose  "  Evenings  " 
drew  together  the  wit  and  genius  for  which  that  city  has  been  always  famous.  When 
I  write  a  Memory  of  "  Sydney,  Lady  Morgan,"  I  may  have  something  to  say  of  the 
brilliancy  of  those  evenings,  although  then  (as  now)  there  were  two  "  societies  " 
which  rarely  mingled  the  one  with  the  other.  In  England  public  differences  seldom 
interrupt  private  intercourse  ;  nay,  cordial  friendships  often  exist  between  persons  of 
very  opposite  opinions  in  both  religion  and  politics.  It  is  not  so  in  Ireland.  But 
the  poet  Moore  was  an  "influence"  that  rendered  powerless  for  a  time,  the  evil 
spirit  of  Party  ;  and  it  was  not  difficult,  on  such  occasions  as  that  I  describe,  to 
attract  around  him  all  that  was  most  eminent  and  distinguished  in  the  Irish  capital. 
I  was  then  very  young — a  hero-worshipper,  as  I  have  been  from  that  day  to  this ; 
and  though  he  was  to  me  "  a  star  apart,"  I  remembered  his  cordial  reception  with 
an  amount  of  gratitude  that  time  has  neither  lessened  nor  weakened.  It  is  a  great 
privilege — the  belief  that  I  may  now  repay  some  portion  of  the  debt,  more  than  fifty 
years  after  it  was  contracted . 

Among  the  guests  on  the  evening  to  which  I  make  special  reference  were  the 
poet's  father,  mother,  and  sister — the  sister  to  whom  he  was  so  fervently  attached. 
The  father  was  a  plain,  homely  man  ;*  nothing  more,  and  assuming  to  be  nothing 
more,  than  a  Dublin  tradesman.  The  mother  evidently  possessed  a  far  higher  mind. 
She,  too,  was  retiring  and  unpretending ;  like  her  great  son  in  features  ;  with  the 
same  gentle  yet  sparkling  eye,  flexible  and  smiling  mouth,  and  kindly  and  conciliating 
manners.  It  was  to  be  learned,  long  afterwards,  how  deep  was  the  afiection  that 
existed  in  the  poet's  heart  for  these  relatives — how  fervid  the  love  he  bore  them — 
how  earnest  the  respect  with  which  he  invariably  treated  them — nay,  how  elevated 
was  the  pride  with  which  he  regarded  them,  from  first  to  last. 

The  sister,  Ellen,  was,  I  believe,  slightly  deformed  ;  at  least,  the  memory  to  me 
is  that  of  a  small,  delicate  woman,  with  one  shoulder  "  out,"  The  expression  of  her 
countenance  betokened  suffering,  having  that  peculiar  "sharpness"  which  usually 
accompanies  continuous  bodily  ailment. f  I  saw  more  of  her  some  years  afterwards, 
and  knew  that  her  mind  and  disposition  were  essentially  lovable.  She  was  the  poet's 
friend  as  well  as  sister. 

To  the  mother- — Anastasia  Moore,  nee  Codd,  a  humbly-descended,  homely,  and 
almost  uneducated  woman  \ — Moore  gave  intense  respect  and  devoted  affection,  from 

*  Mrs.  Moore — writing  to  me  in  May,  1864— told  me  I  had  a  wrong  impression  as  to  Mock's  father ;  that  he 
was  "  handsome,  full  of  fun,  and  with  good  manners."    Moore  calls  him  "  one  of  Nature's  gentlemen." 

+  Mrs.  Moore  wrote  to  me  that  here  also  I  had  a  wrong  impression.  "  She  was  only  a  little  grown  out  in  one 
shoulder,  but  with  good  health  :  her  expression  was  feeling,  not  suffering."  "Dear  EUen,"  she  added,  "  was  the 
delight  of  every  one  who  knew  her— sang  sweetly— her  voice  very  like  her  brother's.  She  died,  suddenly,  to  the 
grief  of  my  loving  heart."  ,      ,      „  ,    ,       ,,    -.r  n^ 

%  She  was  born  in  Wexford,  where  her  father  kept  a  "  general  shop."  Moore  used  to  say  playfully  that  he  was 
called  in  order  to  dignify  his  occupation,  "  a  provision  merchant."  When  on  his  way  to  Bannow,  in  1835,  to  spend 
a  few  days  with  his  friend,  Thomas  Boyse— a  genuine  gentleman  of  the  good  old  school— he  records  his  visit  to  the 


THOMAS  MOORE. 


the  time  that  reason  dawned  upon  him  to  the  hour  of  her  death.  To  her  he  wrote 
his  first  letter  (in  1793),  ending  thus: — ■ 

"  Your  absence  all  but  ill  endui-e, 
And  none  so  ill  as— Thomas  Mooke." 

And  in  the  zenith  of  his  fame,  when  society  drew  largely  on  his  time,  and  the 
highest  and  best  in  the  land  coveted  a  portion  of  his  leisure,  with  her  he  corresponded 
so  regularly  that  at  her  death  she  possessed  (so  Mrs.  Moore  told  me)  four  thousand 
of  his  letters.  Never,  according  to  the  statement  of  Earl  Eussell,  did  he  pass  a  week 
without  writing  to  her  Unce,  except  while  absent  in  Bermuda,  when  franks  were  not 
to  be  obtained,  and  postages  were  costly.  When  a  world  had  tendered  to  him  its 
homage,  still  the  homely  woman  was  his  "  darling  mother,"  to  whom  he  transmitted 
a  record  of  his  cares  and  triumphs,  anxieties  and  hopes,  as  if  he  considered — as  I 

^0       ■^^d^'■^  P^^-^^"^^^-^     /r^^if-M^      ^V 


A^  -^7'  /^^^^ 


verily  believe  he  did  consider — that  to  give  her  pleasure  was  the  chief  enjoyment 
of  his  life.  His  sister — "excellent  Nell" — occupied  only  a  second  place  in  his 
heart ;  while  his  father  received  as  much  of  his  respect  as  if  he  had  been  the 
hereditary  representative  of  a  line  of  kings.  All  his  life  long  "  he  continued,"  according 
to  one  of  the  most  valued  of  his  correspondents,  "  amidst  the  pleasures  of  the  world, 
to  preserve  his  home  fireside  affections  true  and  genuine,  as  they  were  when  a  boy." 
To  his  mother  he  writes  of  all  his  facts  and  fancies  ;  to  her  he  opens  his  heart  in  its 
natural  and  innocent  fulness  ;  tells  her  of  each  thing,  great  or  small,  that,  interesting 
him,  must  interest  her— from  his  introduction  to  the  Prince,  and  his  visit  to  Niagara, 


house  of  his  maternal  grandfather.    "  Nothing,"  he  says,  "  could  be  more  humble  and  mean  than  the  little  low 
house  that  remains  to  teU  of  his  whereabouts." 

It  is  still  a  small  "general  shop,"  situate  in  the  old  corn-market  of  Wexford.  The  rooms  are  more  than 
usually  "quaint."  Here  Mrs.  Moore  lived  until  within  a  few  weeks  of  the  bii-th  of  her  illustrious  son.  At  our 
suggestion  a  tablet  of  white  marble  was  placed  over  the  entrance  door,  stating  in  few  words  the  fact  that  there  the 
mother  was  bom  and  lived,  and  that  to  this  house  the  poet  came,  on  the  26th  August,  1835,  when  in  the  zenith  of 
his  fame,  to  render  homage  to  her  memory.  He  thus  writes  of  her  and  her  birthplace  in  his  "Notes"  of  that 
year  :— "  One  of  the  noblest-mmded,  as  well  as  the  most  warm-hearted,  of  all  God's  creatures  was  bom  under  that 
lowly  roof."  (I  have  used  the  words  "at  our  suggestion,"  but,  in  fact,  it  was  at  our  sole  cost  that  the  tablet  was 
so  placed.  We  had  thought  it  in  better  taste  to  erect  it  by  subscription;  but  the  attempt  to  raise  money  for  the 
purpose  was  a  failure.) 

B    2 


MEMORIES. 


1 


to  the  acquisition  of  a  pencil-case,  and  the  purchase  of  a  pocket-handkerchief.     "  You, 
dear  mother,"  he  writes,  "  can  see  neither  frivolity  nor  egotism  in  these  details." 

Evidences  of  his  deep  love  and  veneration  for  his  mother  are  sufficiently  abundant. 
I  add  to  them  one  more.  The  nephew  of  Mrs.  Moore,  Charles  Murray,  gave  to  me 
a  small  MS.  volume  of  early  poems,  "  written  out  "  for  his  mother  (it  has  no  date) : 
it  is  thus  prefaced  : — 

"  For  her  who  was  the  critic  of  my  first  infant  productions,  I  have  transcribed  the 
few  little  essays  that  follow.  The  smile  of  Iter  approbation  and  the  tear  of  lier 
affection  were  the  earliest  rewards  of  my  lisping  numbers  ;  and  however  the  efforts 
of  my  maturer  powers  may  aspire  to  the  applause  of  a  less  partial  judge,  still  will  the 
praises  which  she  bestows  be  dearer — far  dearer — to  my  mind  than  any.  The  critic 
praises  from  the  head — the  mother  praises  from  the  heart.  With  one  it  is  a  tribute 
of  the  judgment ;  with  the  other  it  is  a  gift  from  the  Soul."  * 

In  1806  Moore's  father  received,  through  the  interest  of  Lord  Moira,  the  post 
of  Barrack-master  in  Dublin,  and  thus  became  independent.  In  1815  "  retrench- 
ment "  deprived  him  of  that  office,  and  he  was  placed  on  half-pay.  The  family  had 
to  seek  aid  from  the  son,  who  entreated  them  not  to  despond,  but  rather  to  thank 
Providence  for  having  permitted  them  to  enjoy  the  fruits  of  office  so  long,  till  he  (the 
son)  was  "in  a  situation  to  keep  them  in  comfort  without  it."  "  Thank  Heaven," 
he  writes  afterwards  of  his  father,  "  I  have  been  able  to  make  his  latter  days  tranquil 
and  comfortable."  When  sitting  beside  that  father's  death-bed  (in  1825)  he  was 
relieved  by  a  burst  of  tears  and  prayers,  and  by  "  a  sort  of  confidence  that  the  Great 
and  Pure  Spirit  above  us  could  not  be  otherwise  than  pleased  at  what  He  saw 
passing  in  my  mind."  f 

When  Lord  Welles! ey  (Lord  Lieutenant),  after  the  death  of  the  father,  proposed 
to  continue  the  half-pay  to  the  sister,  Moore  declined  the  offer,  although  he  adds, 
"  God  knows  how  useful  such  aid  would  be  to  me,  as  God  alone  knows  how  I  am  to 
support  all  the  burthens  now  heaped  upon  me,"  and  his  wife  was  planning  how 
"  they  might  be  able  to  do  with  one  servant,"  that  they  might  be  the  better  able  to 
assist  his  mother. 

The  poet  was  born  at  the  corner  of  Aungier  Street,  Dublin,  on  the  28th  of  May, 
1779,  and  died  at  Sloperton,  on  the  25th  February, J  1852,  at  the  age  of  seventy-two. 
What  a  full  life  it  was  !  Industry  a  fellow-worker  with  Genius  for  nearly  sixty 
years  ! 

He  was  a  sort  of  "  show-child  "  almost  from  his  birth,  and  could  barely  walk 
when  it  was  jestingly  said  of  him  he  passed  all  his  nights  with  fairies  on  the  hills. 
"  He  lisped  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers  came."     Almost  his  earliest  memory  was 

*  The  book  is  -writteii  in  a  somewhat  iDoyish  hand — that  of  Moore  in  his  youth.  On  a  fly-leaf,  in  the  later  hand 
of  the  poet,  is  this  passage  :  "  Very  juvenile  poems  indeed." 

+  At  a  gi-and  dinner  given  to  him  in  Dublin  (his  father  and  mother  being  both  present),  on  the  henlth  of  Mr. 
Moore,  sen.,  being  given,  Moore  said— "  If  I  deserve  (which  I  cannot  persuade  myself  I  do)  one-half  of  the  honours 
you  have  this  day  heaped  upon  me,  to  Tiim,  and  to  the  education  which  he  struggled  hard  to  give  me,  I  owe  it  all. 
Yes,  gentlemen,  to  him  and  to  an  admirable  mother — one  of  the  warmest  hearts  even  this  land  of  warm  hearts  ever 
produced— whose  highest  ambition  for  her  son  has  ever  been  that  independent  and  unbought  approbation  of  her 
countrymen,  which,  thank  God.  she  lives  this  day  to  witness." 

X  I  find  in  Earl  Russell's  Memoir  the  date  given  as  the  26th  February  ;  but  Mrs.  Moore  altered  it  (in  a  letter  to 
me)  to  February  25. 


THOMAS  MOORE. 


his  having  been  crowned  king  of  a  castle  by  some  of  his  play-fellows.  At  his  first 
school  he  was  the  show-boy  of  the  schoolmaster;  at  thirteen  years  old  he  had 
written  poetry  that  attracted  and  justified  admiration.  In  1797  he  was  "  a  man  of 
mark"  at  the  University.  In  1798,  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  he  had  made  "con- 
siderable progress"  in  translating  the  Odes  of  Anacreon ;  and  in  1800  he  was 
"  patronised"  and  flattered  by  the  Prince  of  Wales,  who  was  "happy  to  know  a 
man  of  his  abilities,"  and  "  hoped  they  might  have  many  opportunities  of  enjoying 
each  other's  society."  * 

His  earliest  printed  work,  "  Poems  by  Thomas  Little,"  has  been  the  subject  of 
much,  and,  perhaps,  merited,  condemnation.  Of  Moore's  own  feeling  in  reference  to 
these  compositions  of  his  thoughtless  boyhood  it  may  be  right  to  quote  three  of  the 
dearest  of  his  friends. 

Thus  writes  Lisle  Bowles  of  Thomas  Moore,  in  allusion  to  these  early  poems — 


Like  Israel's  incense,  laid 


Upon  xmholy  earthly  shrines  "- 

"  Who,  if  in  the  unthinking  gaiety  of  premature  genius,  he  joined  the  syrens,  has 
rriade  ample  amends  by  a  life  of  the  strictest  virtuous  propriety,  equally  exemplary 
as  the  husband,  the  father,  and  the  man ;  and  as  far  as  the  muse  is  concerned,  more 
ample  amends,  by  melodies  as  sweet  as  scriptural  and  sacred,  and  by  weaving  a  tale 
of  the  richest  Oriental  colours  which  faithful  afi'ection  and  pity's  tear  have  consecrated 
to  all  ages."  This  is  the  statement  of  his  friend  Rogers: — "  So  heartily  has  Moore 
repented  of  having  published  '  Little's  Poems,'  that  I  have  seen  him  shed  tears — tears 
of  deep  contrition — when  we  were  talking  of  them."  And  thus  writes  Jefirey  : — "  He 
has  long  ago  redeemed  his  error ;  in  all  his  later  works  he  appears  as  the  eloquent 
champion  of  purity,  fidelity,  and  delicacy,  not  less  than  of  justice,  liberty,  and  honour.' 
I  allude  to  his  early  triumphs  only  to  show  that  while  they  would  have  "  spoiled" 
nine  men  out  of  ten,  they  failed  to  taint  the  character  of  Moore.  His  modest  estimate 
of  himself  Avas  from  first  to  last  a  leading  feature  in  his  character.  Success  never 
engendered  egotism ;  honours  never  seemed  to  him  only  the  recompense  of  desert : 
he  largely  magnified  the  favours  he  received,  and  seemed  to  consider  as  mere 
"  nothings  "  the  services  he  rendered,  and  the  benefits  he  conferred.  That  was  his 
great  characteristic — all  his  life.  I  have  myself  evidence  to  adduce  on  this  head. 
In  illustration,  I  print  a  letter  I  received  from  Moore,  dated  "  Sloperton,  November 
29,  1843 :  "— 

"My  dear  Me.  Hall, 

"  I  am  really  and  truly  ashamed  of  myself  for  having  let  so  many  acts  of  kindness 
on  j'our  part  remain  unnoticed  and  unacknowledged  on  mine.  But  the  world  seems  determined  to 
make  me  a  man  of  letters  in  more  senses  than  one,  and  almost  every  day  brings  me  such  an  influx 


*  On  the  9th  of  April,  179S,  at  a  meeting  of  Roman  Catholics  in  Dublin,  the  youth  Thomas  Moore  made  a 
speech.  On  that  day  Moore  headed  a  large  body  of  students  of  the  University,  and  presented  an  address  to  Hemy 
Grattan.  Moore's  address  was  energetic,  eloquent,  and  impressive  :  it  was  a  fervid  demand  for  "  emancipation," 
of  which  he  was  aU  his  life  long  the  earnest  advocate.  The  following  is  a  passage  from  that  speech :—  In  declaring 
their  sensations  on  this  day,  at  this  important  period,  the  youth  of  Ireland,  the  nation's  nsmg  sun,  bursting  from 
these  clouds  of  bigotry,  opacity,  and  darkness,  with  which  they  have  been  enveloped— give  you— give  Ireland— a 
solemn  instance  of  uncorrupted  honour  and  pure  integrity  ;  an  instance  at  which  the  Minister  of  Britain,  m  his 
plenitude  of  power,  must  stand  appalled,  and  conclude  that  the  '  rising,  as  well  as  the  passing  generation,  unite  in 
one  voice— the  voice  of  reason  and  justice— for  your  emancipation,— that  basis  of  liberty,  that  pledge  of  reform. 


of  epistles  from  mere  strangers,  that  friends  hardly  ever  get  a  line  from  me.  My  friend 
Washington  Irving  used  to  say,  '  It  is  much  easier  to  get  a  book  from  Moore  than  a  letter.' 
But  this  has  not  been  the  case,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  of  late ;  for  the  penny-post  has  become  the 
sole  channel  of  my  inspirations.  How  am  I  to  thank  you  sufficiently  for  all  your  and  Mrs.  Hall's 
kindness  to  me  ?  She  must  come  down  here  when  the  summer  arrives,  and  be  thanked  a  quattr 
ocelli — a  far  better  way  of  thanking  than  at  such  a  cold  distance.  Your  letter  to  the  mad 
Repealers  was  far  too  good  and  wise  and  gentle  to  have  much  effect  upon  such  Eantipoles."  * 

The  house  in  Aungier  Street  I  have  pictured.  I  visited  it  in  1864,  and  again  in 
1869.  It  was  then,  and  still  is,  as  it  was  in  1779,  the  dwelling  of  a  grocer — altered 
only  in  so  far  as  that  a  bust  of  the  poet  is  placed  over  the  door,  and  the  fact  that  he 
was  born  there  is  recorded  on  a  marble  tablet.!  May  no  modern  "improvement" 
ever  touch  it ! 

"  The  great  Emathian  conqueror  bid  spare 
The  house  of  Pindarus,  whea  temple  and  tower 
Went  to  the  ground." 

This  humble  dwelling  of  the  humble  tradesman  is  the  house  of  which  the  poet 
speaks  in  so  many  of  his  early  letters  and  memoranda.  Here,  when  a  child  in  years, 
he  arranged  a  debating  society,  consisting  of  himself  and  his  father's  two  "  clerks ;  " 
here  he  picked  up  a  little  Italian  from  a  kindly  old  priest  who  had  passed  some 
time  in  Italy,  and  obtained  a  "smattering  of  French;"  here  his  tender  mother 
watched  over  his  boyhood,  proud  of  his  opening  promise,  and  hopeful,  yet  appre- 
hensive, of  his  future  ;  here  he  and  his  sister,  "  excellent  Nell,"  acquired  music,  first 
upon  an  old  harpsichord,  obtained  by  his  father  in  discharge  of  a  debt,  and  afterwards 
on  a  piano,  to  buy  which  his  loving  mother  had  saved  up  all  superfluous  pence. 
Hither  he  came — not  less  proudly,  yet  as  fondly  as  ever — when  college  magnates 
gave  him  honours,  and  the  Yiceroy  had  received  him  as  a  guest. 

In  1835  he  records  "a  visit  to  No.  12,  Aungier  Street,  where  I  was  born;" 
"visited  every  part  of  the  house;  the  small  old  yard  and  its  appurtenances;  the 
small  dark  kitchen,  where  I  used  to  have  my  bread  and  milk ;  the  front  and  drawing- 
rooms  ;  the  bed-rooms  and  garrets — murmuring,  '  Only  think,  a  grocer's  still ! '  " 
"  The  many  thoughts  that  came  rushing  upon  me  while  thus  visiting  the  house 
where  the  first  twenty  years  of  my  life  were  passed  may  be  more  easily  conceived 
than  told."  He  records,  with  greater  unction  than  he  did  his  visit  to  the 
Prince  of  Wales,  his  sitting  with  the  grocer  and  his  wife  at  their  table,  and  drinking 
in  a  glasa  of  their  wine  her  and  her  husband's  "  good  health."  Thence  he  went 
with  all  his  "recollections  of  the  old  shop"  to  a  grand  dinner  at  the  Viceregal 
Lodge  ! 

I  spring  with  a  single  line  from  the  year  1822,  when  I  knew  him  first,  to  the 

*  Alluding  to  a  Letter  I  had  printed  concerning  the  Irish  agitation  for  Eepeal  of  the  Union. 

+  I  regret  to  say  it  was  so  recorded.  I  procured  a  white  marble  slab,  had  the  fact  of  his  birth  in  that  house 
engraved  upon  it  (nothing  more  than  the  fact ;  surely,  not  naming  my  own  name),  and  obtained  the  sanction  of  the 
owner  of  the  house  to  put  it  over  the  door.  I  paid  the  expense  of  so  fixing  it.  In  1869,  on  visiting  the  house,  I  found, 
to  my  surprise  and  indignation,  that  it  had  been  removed.  On  my  inquiring  of  the  thtn  occupier  the  cause  of  this 
outrage,  he  cooUy  informed  me  that  when  the  house  was  repainted  he  took  it  down,  and  had  not  thought  it  worth 
while  to  restore  it.  I  asked  him  if  he  would  do  so  on  my  paying  the  cost ;  but  he  declined  to  give  me  any  promise  to 
that  effect.    I  endeavoured  to  induce  him  to  give  me  back  the  slab  (or  sell  it  to  me),  but  that  also  he  refused  to  do. 

I  trust  this  note  will  draw  the  attention  of  some  more  powerful  "  intercessor"  to  the  discreditable  fact,  and  that 
an  Irishman  will  do  what  I,  as  an  Englishman,  failed  to  do. 

The  slab  had  not  been  restored,  in  1875— and  probably  is  still  in  the  cellar  of  the  grocer. 


A 


THOMAS  MOORE. 


year  1845,  when  circumstances  enabled  us  to  enjoy  the  long-looked-for  happiness  of 
visiting  Moore  and  his  beloved  wife  in  their  home — Sloperton.* 

The  poet  was  then  in  his  sixty-fifth  year,  and  had,  in  a  great  measure,  retired 
from  actual  labour  :  indeed,  it  soon  became  evident  to  us  that  the  faculty  for 
continuous  toil  no  longer  existed.  Happily  it  was  not  absolutely  needed,  for,  with 
very  limited  wants,  there  was  a  sufficiency — a  bare  sufficiency,  however,  for  there 


wwm 

THE  BIETH-HOUSE   OF  THOMAS   MOOEB. 


were  no  means  to  procure  either  the  elegancies  or  the  luxuries  which  so  frequently 
become  necessaries,  and  a  longing  for  which  might  have  been  excused  in  one  who 
had  been  the  friend  of  peers  and  the  associate  of  princes. 

The  forests  and  fields  that  surround  Bowood,  the  mansion  of  the  Marquis  of 
Lansdowne,  neighbour  the  poet's  humble  dwelling ;  the  spire  of  the  village  church — 

*  Our  intercourse  was  a  result  of  his  ha-v-ing-  quoted,  in  his  "  History  of  Ireland,"  some  stanzas  from  a  poem  I 
had  wiitten,  entitled  "  Jeipoint  Abbey  "—privately  printed  in  1823  ;  for  which  Mrs.  Hall  had  thanked  him. 


the  church  of  Beomham — beside  the  portals  of  which  he  now  "  rests" — is  seen  above 
adjacent  trees.  Labourers'  cottages  are  scattered  all  about.  They  are  a  heavy  and 
unimaginative  race  those  peasants  of  Wiltshire  :  and,  knowing  their  neighbour  had 
written  books,  they  could  by  no  means  get  rid  of  the  idea  that  he  was  the  writer  of 
Moore's  Almanack !  and  perpetually  greeted  him  with  a  salutation,  in  hopes  to  receive 
in  return  some  prognostic  of  the  weather  that  might  guide  them  in  arrangements  for 
seed-time  and  harvest.  Once,  when  he  had  lost  his  way — wandering  till  midnight — he 
roused  up  the  inmates  of  a  cottage  in  search  of  a  guide  to  Sloperton,  and  found  he  was 
close  to  his  own  gate.  "Ah  !  sir,"  said  the  peasant,  "that  comes  of  yer  sky-scraping  ! " 
He  was  fond  of  telling  of  himself  such  simple  anecdotes  as  this ;  indeed,  I 
remember  his  saying  that  no  public  applause  had  ever  given  him  so  much  pleasure 
as  a  compliment  from  a  half- wild  countryman,  who  stood  right  in  his  path  on  a  quay 
in  Dublin,  and  exclaimed,  slightly  altering  the  words  of  Byron,  "  Three  cheers  for 
Tommy  Moore,  the  2^ote  of  all  circles,  and  the  darlint  of  his  own." 

I   recall    him  at   this  moment,  —  his   small  form  and  intellectual  face,  rich  in 
expression,  and  that  expression  the  sweetest,  the  most  gentle,  and  the  kindhest. 
He  had  still  in  age  the  same  bright  and  clear  eye,  the  same  gracious  smUe,  the  same 
suave  and  winning  manner,  I  had  noticed  as  the  attributes  of  his  comparative  youth  : 
a  forehead  not  remarkably  broad  or  high,  but  singularly  impressive,  firm,  and  full, 
with  the  organs  of  music  and  gaiety  large,  and  those  of  benevolence  and  veneration 
greatly  preponderating.     Tenerani,  when  making  his  bust,  praised  the  form  of  his 
ears.     The  nose,  as  observed  in  all  his  portraits,  was  somewhat  upturned.     Standing 
or  sitting,  his  head  was  invariably  upraised,  owing,  perhaps,  mainly  to  his  shortness 
of  stature.     He  had  so  much  bodily  activity  as  to  give  him  the  character  of  restless- 
ness ;  and  no  doubt  that  usual  accompaniment  of  genius  was  eminently  his.     His 
hair  was,  at  the  time  I  speak  of,  thin  and  very  grey,  and  he  wore  his  hat  with  the 
"jaunty  "  air  that  has  been  often  remarked  as  a  peculiarity  of  the  Irish.     In  dress, 
although  far  from  slovenly,  he  was  by  no  means  particular.     Leigh  Hunt,  writing  of 
him  in  the  prime  of  life,  says,  "His  forehead  is  bony  and  full  of  character,  with 
'  bumps  '  of  wit  large  and  radiant  enough  to  transport  a  phrenologist.     His  eyes  are 
as  dark  and  fine  as  you  would  wish  to  see  under  a  set  of  vine  leaves ;  his  mouth 
generous  and  good-humoured,  with  dimples."     Jeffrey,  in  one  of  his  letters,  says  of 
him — "  He  is  the  sweetest-blooded,  warmest-hearted,  happiest,  hopefulest  creature 
that  ever  set  fortune  at  defiance."     He  writes  also  of  "the  buoyancy  of  his  spirits 
and  the  inward  light  of  bis  mind  ;  "  and  adds,  "  There  is  nothing  gloomy  or  bitter  in 
his  ordinary  talk,  but  rather  a  wild,  rough,  boyish  pleasantry,  more  like  nature  than 
his  poetry."     This  is  the  tribute  of  Scott :  —  "  There  is  a  manly  frankness,  with 
perfect  ease   and   good-breeding,   about  him,  which  is   delightful."      In   1835  this 
portrait  of  the  poet  was  drawn  by  the  American,  N.  P.  Willis  : — "His  eyes  sparkle 
like  a  champagne  bubble ;  there  is  a  kind  of  wintry  red,  of  the  tinge  of  an  October 
leaf,  that  seems  enamelled  on  his  cheek ;   his  lips   are   delicately  cut,   slight,   and 
changeable  as  an  aspen  ;  the  slightly-turned  nose  confirms  the  fun  of  the  expression  | 
and  altogether  it  is  a  face  that  sparkles,  beams,  radiates." 

"  The  light  that  surrounds  hira  is  all  from  within."  .■     .■. 


THOMAS  MOORE. 


He  had  but  little  voice  ;  yet  he  sung  with  a  depth  of  sweetness  that  charmed 
all  hearers  :  it  was  true  melody,  and  told  upon  the  heart  as  well  as  the  ear.  No 
doubt  much  of  this  charm  v/as  derived  from  association,  for  it  was  only  his  own 
melodies  he  sung.  It  would  be  difficult  to  describe  the  effect  of  his  singing.*  I 
remember  some  one  saying  to  me,  it  conveyed  an  idea  of  what  a  mermaid's  song 
might  be.  Thrice  I  heard  him  sing  "As  a  beam  o'er  the  face  of  the  waters  may 
glow  "—once  in  1822,  once  at  Lady  Blessington's,  and  once  in  my  own  house. 
Those  who  can  recall  the  touching  words  of  that  song,  and  unite  them  with  the 
deep  yet  tender  pathos  of  the  music,  will  be  at  no  loss  to  conceive  the  intense 
delight  of  his  auditors. 

I  occasionally  met  Moore  in  public,  and  once  or  twice  at  public  dinners.  One 
of  the  most  agreeable  evenings  I  ever  passed  was  in  1830,  at  a  dinner  given  to  him 
by  the  members  of  "  The  Literary  Union."  That  "  club  "  was  founded  in  1829  by 
the  poet  Campbell.  I  may  have  to  speak  of  it  when  I  write  a  Memory  of  him. 
Moore  was  then  in  strong  health,  and  in  the  zenith  of  his  fame.  There  were  many 
men  of  mark  about  him., — leading  wits,  and  men  of  letters.  He  was  full  of  life, 
sparkling  and  brilhant  in  all  he  said,  rising  every  now  and  then  to  say  something 
that  gave  the  hearers  delight,  and  looking  as  if  "  dull  care  "  had  been  ever  powerless 
to  check  the  overflowing  of  his  soul.  But  although  no  bard  of  any  age  knew 
better  how  to 

"  Wreathe  the  bowl  with  flowers  of  soul," 

he  had  acquired  the  power  of  self-restraint,  and  could  "stop  "  when  the  glass  was 
circulating  too  freely. 

At  the  memorable  dinner  of  "the  Literary  Fund,"  at  which  the  good  Prince 
Albert  presided  (on  the  11th  May,  1842),  the  two  poets,  Campbell  and  Moore,  had 
to  make  speeches.  The  author  of  the  "  Pleasures  of  Hope,"  heedless  of  the  duty 
that  devolved  upon  him,  had  "  confused  his  brain."  Moore  came  on  the  evening 
of  that  day  to  our  house ;  and  I  well  remember  the  terms  of  deep  sorrow  and  bitter 
reproach  in  which  he  spoke  of  the  lamentable  impression  that  one  of  the  great 
authors  of  the  age  and  country  must  have  left  on  the  mind  of  the  royal  chairman, 
then  new  among  us. 

It  is  gratifying  to  record  that  the  temptations  to  which  the  great  lyric  poet  was 
so  often  and  so  peculiarly  exposed  were  ever  powerless  for  wrong. 

Moore  sat  for  his  portrait  to  Shee,  Lawrence,  Newton,  Maclise,  Mulvany,  and 
Richmond,  and  to  the  sculptors  Tenerani,  Chantrey,  Kirk,  and  Moore.  On  one 
occasion  of  his  sitting  he  says,  "  Having  nothing  in  my  round  potato  face  but 
what  painters  cannot  catch — mobility  of  character — the  consequence  is,  that  a 
portrait  of  me  can  be  only  one  or  other  of  two  disagreeable  things — a  caiyut 
mortuwn  or  a  caricature."  Richmond's  portrait  was  taken  in  1843.  Moore  says 
of  it,  "  The  artist  has  worked  wonders  with  unmanageable  faces   such   as   mine." 


*  In  1806,  Lucy  Aitken  thus  wrote  of  the  young  poet :— "  He  sung  us  some  of  his  own  sweet  little  songs,  set  to 
his  own  music,  and  rendered  doubly  touching  by  a  voice  the  most  sweet,  an  utterance  the  most  articulate,  and 
expression  the  most  deep  and  varied  that  I  had  ever  witnessed."  .:      ■ 


Of  all  his  portraits  this  is  the  one  that  pleases  me  best,  and  most  forcibly  recalls 
him  to  my  remembrance.  It  is  the  one  I  have  engraved  at  the  head  of  this 
Memory. 

I  soon  learned  to  love  the  man.  It  was  impossible  not  to  do  so,  for  nature  had 
endowed  him  with  that  rare  but  happy  gift — to  have  pleasure  in  giving  pleasure,  and 
pain  in  giving  pain  ;  while  his  life  was,  or  at  all  events  seemed  to  be,  a  practical 
comment  on  his  own  lines  : — 

"  They  may  rail  at  this  life  :  from  the  hour  I  began  it, 
I've  found  it  a  life  full  of  kindness  and  bliss." 

I  had  daily  walks  with  him  at  Sloperton — along  his  "  terrace- walk  " — during  our 
brief  visit ;  I  listening,  he  talking  ;  he  now  and  then  asking  questions,  but  rarely 
speaking  of  himself  or  his  books.  Indeed,  the  only  one  of  his  poems  to  which 
he  made  any  special  reference  was  the  "Lines  on  the  Death  of  Sheridan,"  of 
which  he  said,  "  That  is  one  of  the  few  things  I  have  written  of  which  I  am  really 
proud." 

The  anecdotes  he  told  me  were  all  of  the  class  of  those  I  have  related — simple, 
unostentatious.  He  has  been  frequently  charged  with  the  weakness  of  undue 
respect  for  the  aristocracy  ;  I  never  heard  him,  during  the  whole  of  our  intercourse, 
speak  of  great  people  with  Avhom  he  had  been  intimate  ;  never  a  word  of  the 
honours  accorded  to  him  ;  and  certainly  he  never  uttered  a  sentence  of  satire,  or 
censure,  or  hax'shness,  concerning  any  one  of  his  contemporaries.  I  remember  his 
describing  with  proud  warmth  his  visit  to  his  friend  Boyse,  at  Bannow,  in  the 
county  of  Wexfoi'd  ;  the  dehght  he  enjoyed  at  receiving  the  homage  of  bands  of  the 
peasantry  gathered  to  greet  him  ;  the  arches  of  green  leaves  under  which  he  passed ; 
and  the  dances  with  the  pretty  peasant  girls — one  in  particular,  with  whom  he  led 
off  a  country  dance.  Would  that  those  who  fancied  him  a  tuft-hunter  could  have 
heard  him  !  they  would  have  seen  how  really  humble  was  his  heart.*  Reference  to 
his  Journal  will  show  that,  of  all  his  contemporaries — whenever  he  spoke  of  them — 
he  had  something  kindly  to  say.  There  is  no  evidence  of  ill-nature  in  any  case — 
not  a  shadow  of  envy  or  jealousy.  The  sturdiest  Scottish  grazier  could  not  have 
been  better  pleased  than  he  was  to  see  the  elegant  home — evidence  of  prosperity — 
Abbotsford. 

The  house  at  Sloperton  is  a  small  cottage,  for  which  Moore  paid  originally  the 
sum  of  £40  a  year,  "  furnished."  Subsequently,  however,  he  became  its  tenant, 
under  a  repairing  lease  at  £18  annual  rent.  He  took  possession  of  it  in  November, 
1817.  Bessy  was  "not  only  satisfied,  but  delighted  with  it,  which  shows  the 
humility  of  her  taste,"  writes  Moore  to  his  mother;  "for  it  is  a  small  thatch^ 
cottage,  and  we  get  it  furnished  for  £40  a  year."!  "It  has  a  small  garden  and 
lawn  in  front,  and  a  kitchen  garden  behind  ;  along  two  of  the  sides  of  this  kitchen- 

*  I  have  seen  the  following  passage  from  the  Journal  quoted  as  evidence  of  the  mean  subserviency  of  Moore  : — 
"  Called  at  Lansdowne  House,  a,nd  was  let  in."  The  generous  critic  overlooked  another  passage  in  the  Journal  as 
follows :—"  Lord  Lansdowne  called,  and  was  let  in." 

+  One  of  Mrs.  Moore's  dearest  friends  informs  me  that  Moore  "  almost  enlii'ely  rebuilt  the  lower  pirt  of  the 
cottage.  The  drawing-room  remained  as  of  old  ;  the  library  had  a  small  ante-room  added  to  it,  the  wall  and  door 
being  removed,  the  whole  raised,  and  the  ceiling  ai-ched." 


THOMAS  MOORE. 


garden  is  a  raised  bank,"— the  poet's  "  terrace-walk  ;  "  so  he  loved  to  call  it.  Here 
a  small  deal  table  stood  through  all  weathers  ;  for  it  was  his  custom  to  compose  as 
he  walked,  and,  at  this  table,  to  pause  and  write  down  his  thoughts.'^  Hence  he 
had  always  a  view  of  the  setting  sun ;  and  I  beheve  few  things  on  earth  gave  him 
more  pleasure  than  practically  to  realise  the  line— 

-     "  How  glorious  the  sun  looked  in  sinking !  " 

for,  as  Mrs.  Moore  informed  us,  he  very  rarely  missed  that  sight. 

In   1811,   the  year  of  his   marriage,  he  lived  at  York  Terrace,    Queen's  Elm, 


SLOPKKTOiSr,   THE    DWELLING   OF   THOMAS   MOOBE. 

Brompton.  Mi's.  Moore  told  us  it  was  then  a  pretty  house  :  the  Terrace  was  isolated 
and  opposite  nursery  gardens.!  Long  afterwards  (in  1824),  he  went  to  Brompton 
to  "indulge  himself  with  a  sight  of  that  house."  In  1812  he  was  settled  at 
Kegworth,]:  and  in  1813  at  Mayfield  Cottage,  near  Ashbourne,  in  Derbyshire.  Of 
Mayfield,  one  of  his  friends,  who,  twenty  years  afterwards,  accompanied  him  there 


*  He  was  always  in  motion  when  he  composed.  If  the  weather  prevented  his  walking  on  the  terrace,  he  would 
pace  up  and  down  his  small  study  :  the  length  of  his  walk  was  indicated  by  the  state  of  the  carpet ;  the  places  where 
his  steps  turned  were,  at  both  ends,  worn  into  holes.  The  "smaU  deal  table"  is  now  in  my  conservatory — honoured 
as  it  ought  to  be. 

+  It  is  now  part  and  parcel  of  a  populous  suburb— a  house  in  a  row.  I  regret  that  I  cannot  indicate  the  number, 
but  believe  it  to  be  No.  5. 

t  His  da,ughter,  Anasta.sia  Maiy,  was  born  here  on  the  4th  February,  1813.  Of  Kegwoith  he  writes  : — "  Bessy 
is  quite  pleased  with  our  new  house,  and  runs  wild  about  the  large  garden,  which  is  certainly  a  delightful  eman- 
cipation for  her,  after  our  veiy  limited  domain  at  Brompton." 


to  see  it,  remarks  on  the  small,  solitary,  and  now  wretched-looking  cottage,  where 
all  the  fine  "Orientalism"  and  "  sentimentalism  "  had  been  engendered.  Of  this 
cottage  he  himself  writes — "  It  was  a  poor  place,  little  better  than  a  barn  ;  but  we 
at  once  took  it  and  set  about  making  it  habitable."  The  rent  Moore  paid  for  it  was 
£20  a  year.  It  was  then  "  within  twenty-four  hours'  drive  of  town,"  i.e.,  London-, 
It  is  no  better  than  a  poor  place  now.  I  visited  the  house  in  the  autumn  of  1869, 
in  company  with  my  friend  Llewellyn  Jewitt,  who  furnishes  me  with  the  following 
description  : — 

"  Situate  only  a  couple  of  miles  from  Ashbourne,  within  walking  distance  of 
Dove  Dale,  and  in  the  midst  of  most  charming  scenery,  Mayfield  Cottage  may  have 
become  a  delicious,  though  it  was  a  homely,  retreat.  The  cottage  is  a  plain  square 
building,  with  a  hipped  roof.  In  front  is  a  small  flower-garden,  slightly  terraced, 
and  a  path  leads  up  to  the  front  door,  which  is  in  the  centre  of  the  building,  and  is 
covered  with  a  simple,  trellised  porch.  There  are  only  four  windows — two  on  the 
ground  floor,  one  in  the  '  houseplace,'  and  the  other  in  the  '  parlour ; '  and  two 
upstairs  in  the  bed-rooms.  The  rooms  are  small,  and  have  brick  floors,  and  have 
nothing  '  cosy  '  or  nice  or  inviting  about  them.  There  are  also  a  kitchen  and  a 
dairy  on  the  ground  floor ;  for  the  cottage  is  now  a  small  farm-house.  The  bed- 
rooms are,  like  the  lower  apartments,  small  and  uninviting.  The  poet's  own  room 
— that  in  which  he  slept — is  the  one  on  the  left,  and  on  a  pane  of  the  window  the 
following  lines  are  scratched  on  the  glass,  and  are  said — though  without  any 
evidence — to  have  been  so  scratched  by  Moore  himself : — 

'  I  ask  not  always  in  your  breast 

In  solitude  to  be ; 
But  whether  mournful,  whether  blest, 
Sometimes  remember  me. 

— Old  Moore' s  AlmanacTc. 

'  I  ask  not  always  for  thy  smile, 

Lot  of  some  happier  one ; 
But  sometimes  be  with  feelings  fraught 
O'er  joys  now  past  and  gone. 

'I  ask  not  always  for  those  sighs 
Which  make  thy  bosom  swell, 
But  stUl  in  this  fond  heart  of  mine 
Those  strong  affections  dwell.' 

I  have  placed  a  portrait  of  Moore  over  the  chimney-piece  in  that  room.  The  front 
of  the  cottage  is  partly  overgrown  with  foliage,  and  is  surrounded  by  trees  ;  there 
is  a  small  '  arbour,'  where  the  poet  was  wont  to  sit  and  write,  but  the  room  he  is 
said  to  have  usually  '  written  in '  is  now  used  as  a  dairy  :  even  when  he  resided 
there  it  must  have  been  sadly  unsuited  to  his  mind." 

At  Mayfield  "  Lalla  Rookh"  was  written,  and  here  it  was  "  little  Barbara  and  I 
rolled  about  in  the  hay-field  before  our  door,  till  I  was  much  more  hot  and  tired 
than  my  little  playfellow,"  The  district  has  other  memories.  Not  far  ofi"  resided 
for  a  time  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau,  and  here  he  wrote  his  "  Confessions  ;  "  Ward, 
the  author  of  "  Tremaine,"  here  lived  and  worked;  the  Dove  is  consecrated  to  the 
memories  of  Walton  and  Cotton — here  they  studied  the  gentle  craft ;  Congreve,  not 


THOMAS  MOORE. 


rj 


far  off,  penned  his  first  drama ;  Dr.  Johnson  visited  here  his  friend  Dr.  Taylor ; 
Dr.  Greaves,  the  author  of  "  The  Spiritual  Quixote,"  had  his  home  here  ;  and' here 
— or  rather  not  far  off — is  laid  the  scene  of  one  of  the  most  remarkable  novels  of 
modern  time,  "  Adam  Bede."  Moreover,  the  Dove  is  one  of  the  very  loveliest 
rivers  of  England. 

Moore  had  a  public  appointment.  As  Burns  was  made  a  ganger  because  he  vpas 
partial  to  whisky,  Moore  was  made  "  Eegistrar  to  the  Admiralty"  in  Bermuda, 
where  his  principal  duty  was  to  "overhaul  the  accounts  of  skippers  and  their 
mates."  Being  called  to  England,  his  affairs  were  placed  in  charge  of  a  superin- 
tendent, who  betrayed  him,  and  left  him  answerable  for  a  heavy  debt,  which 
rendered  necessary  a  temporary  residence  in  Paris.  The  debt,  however,  was  paid 
— not  by  the  aid  of  friends,  some  of  whom  would  have  gladly  relieved  him  of  it,  but 
— literally  by  "  the  sweat  of  his  brow."  Exactly  so  it  was  when  the  MS.  "  Life 
of  Byron  "  was  burned ;  it  was  by  Moore,  and  not  by  the  relatives  of  Byron  (nor 
by  aid  of  friends),  the  money  he  had  received  was  returned  to  the  publisher  who 
had  advanced  it.*  "  The  glorious  privilege  of  being  independent  "  was  indeed 
essentially  his, — in  his  boyhood,  throughout  his  manhood,  and  in  advanced  age 
— always  ! 

In  1799  he  came  to  London  to  enter  at  the  Middle  Temple.  His  first  lodging 
was  at  44,  G-eorge  Street,  Portman  Square.  Very  soon  afterwards  we  find  him 
declining  a  loan  of  money  proffered  by  Lady  Donegal.  He  thanked  God  for  the 
many  sweet  things  of  this  kind  He  had  thrown  in  his  way,  yet  at  that  moment  he 
was  "  terribly  puzzled  how  to  pay  his  tailor."  In  1811,  his  friend  Douglas,  who 
had  just  received  a  large  legacy,  handed  him  a  blank  cheque,  that  he  might  fill  it  up 
for  any  sum  he  needed.  "  I  did  not  accept  the  offer,"  writes  Moore  to  his  mother, 
"  but  you  may  guess  my  feelings."  Yet,  just  then,  he  had  been  compelled  to  draw 
on  his  publisher.  Power,  for  a  sum  of  £30,  "  to  be  repaid  partly  in  songs,"  and  was 
sending  his  mother  a  second-day  paper,  which  he  was  enabled  "  to  purchase  at 
rather  a  cheap  rate."  Even  in  1842  he  was  "  haunted  worryingly,"  not  knowing 
how  to  meet  his  son  Russell's  draft  for  £100 ;  and,  a  year  afterwards,  he  utterly 
drained  his  banker  to  send  £50  to  his  son  Tom.  Once,  being  anxious  that  Bessy 
should  have  some  money  for  the  poor  at  Bromham,  he  sent  a  friend  £5,  requesting 
him  to  forward  it  to  Bessy,  as  from  himself;  and  when  urged  by  some  thoughtless 
person  to  make  a  larger  allowance  to  his  son  Tom,  in  order  that  he  might  "  live  like 
a  gentleman,"  he  writes,  "  If  I  had  thought  but  of  living  like  a  gentleman,  what 
would  have  become  of  my  dear  father  and  mother,  of  my  sweet  sister  Nell,  of  my 
admirable  Bessy's  mother  ?  "  He  declined  to  represent  Limerick  in  Parliament,  on 
the  ground  that  his  "circumstances  were  not  such  as  to  justify  coming  into  Parlia- 
ment at  all,  because  to  the  labour  of  the  day  I  am  indebted  for  my  daily  support." 
He  must  have  a  miserable  soul  who  could  sneer  at  the  poet  studying  how  he  might 
manage  to  recompense  the  doctor  who  would  "  take  no  fees  ;  "  or  at  his  "  amuse- 
ment "  when  Bessy  was  "  calculating  whether  they  could  afford  the  expense  of  a  fly 

*  The  slatements  of  Mr.  Murray  are  not  of  sucli  a  nature  as  to  leave  any  doubt  eonceming  this  assertion.  It 
is  not  disputed  that  the  money  he  had  received  was  paid  back  by  Moore. 


to  Devizes  ;  "  or  when  he  writes  of  his  wife's  "  democratic  pride,"  that  makes  her 
"  prefer  the  company  of  her  equals  to  that  of  her  superiors  ;  "  or  at  his  thinking  she 
never  looked  so  handsome  as  when  (in  1830)  sitting  by  his  mother's  side  (in  Abbey 
Street),  and  with  his  sister  Nell,  "just  the  same  gentle  spirit  as  ever" — "  had  a 
most  happy  family  dinner  ;  "  and  next  day  receiving  the  homage  of  a  score  of  noted 
and  dignified  admirers.  It  Avas  with  many  as  it  was  with  the  poet  Bowles,  who 
"  delighted  to  visit  the  Moores  :  "  they  "  had  such  pleasant  faces." 

As  with  his  mother,  so  with  his  wife  :  from  the  year  1811,  the  year  of  his 
marriage,*  to  that  of  his  death  in  1852,  she  received  from  him  the  continual  homage 
of  a  lover;  away  from  her,  no  matter  what  were  his  allurements,  he  was  ever 
longing  to  be  at  home.  Those  who  love  as  he  did,  wife,  children,  and  friends,  will 
appreciate — although  the  worldling  cannot — such  commonplace  sentences  as  these  : 
— "  Pulled  some  heath  on  Konan's  Island  (Killarney)  to  send  to  my  dear  Bessy  ;  " 
when  in  Italy,  "  got  letters  from  my  sweet  Bessy,  more  precious  to  me  than  all  the 
wonders  I  can  see;"  while  in  Paris,  "sending  for  Bessy  and  my  little  ones; 
wherever  they  are  will  be  home,  and  a  happy  home,  to  me."  When  absent  (which 
was  rarely  for  more  than  a  week),  no  matter  where  or  in  what  company,  seldom  a 
day  passed  that  he  did  not  write  a  letter  to  Bessy.  The  home  enjoyments,  reading 
to  her,  making  her  the  depositary  of  all  his  thoughts  and  hopes, — they  were  his 
deep  delights,  compensations  for  time  spent  amid  scenes  and  with  people  who  had 
no  space  in  his  heart.!  Ever,  when  in  "  terrible  request,"  his  thoughts  and  his 
heart  were  there — in 

"  That  dear  Home,  that  saving'  Ai-k, 

Where  love's  true  light  at  last  I've  found, 
Cheering  within,  when  all  grows  dark 
And  comfortless  and  stormy  round.' ' 

This  is  the  tribute  of  Earl  Kussell  to  the  wife  of  the  poet  Moore  :— "  The 
excellence  of  his  wife's  moral  character,  her  energy  and  courage,  her  persevering 
economy,  made  her  a  better,  and  even  a  richer  partner  to  Moore  than  an  heiress  of 
ten  thousand  a  year  would  have  been,  with  less  devotion  to  her  duty,  and  less 
steadiness  of  conduct."  The  "democratic  pride"  of  which  Moore  speaks  was 
the  pride  that  is  ever  above  a  mean  action,  always  sustaining  him  in  proud 
independence. 

In  March,  1846,  his  Diary  contains  this  sad  passage : — "  The  last  of  my  five 
children  is  gone,  and  we  are  left  desolate  and  alone  ;  not  a  single  relation  have  I  in 
this  world."!     His  sweet  mother  had  died  in  1832  ;  "  excellent  Nell"  in  1846  ;  his 


*  Moore  was  maxried  to  Miss  Elizabeth  Dyke,  at  St.  Martin's  Church,  London,  on  the  25th  March,  1811,  and 
Mrs.  Ellison  writes  to  me—"  She  was  given  away  by  my  father  (Mr.  Power) ,  her  mother,  Mrs.  Dyke,  and  her  youngest 
daughter,  being  present.  That  sister  afterwards  became  the  wife  of  Mr.  Murray,  of  Edinburgh,  and  the  mother  of 
the  nephew,  Charles  Murray,  a  most  estimable  and  accomplished  gentleman,  Mrs.  Moore's  heir,  who  unhappily  died 
in  the  prime  of  life,  in  1872,  leaving  a  widow  and  two  daughters." 

+  In  one  of  Moore's  letters  to  me,  dated  Sloperton,  August  23,  1S44,  he  writes  :— "Ihave  been  once  in  town 
since  I  saw  you,  and  your  name  was  foremost  in  the  List  of  those  I  meant  to  call  upon.  But  a  sudden  illness  of  Mrs. 
Moore  caused  me  to  hurry  down  here  and  leave  business,  calls  on  friends,  and  all  other  such  pleasures  and  duties 
unattended  to."  ,     .    ,,         ,  -^         _i.i. 

t  The  five  children  were,— Anne  Jane  Barbara,  born  in  1812  at  Brompton ;  Anastasia  Mary,  bom  at  Kegworth 
in  1813 ;  Olivia  Byron,  born  at  Mayfield  in  1814  ;  Thomas  Lansdowne  Pan-,  born  at  Sloperton  in  1815  ;  John  Russell, 
born  at  Sloperton  in  1823. 


THOMAS  MOORE.  15 


father  in  1825  ;  and  his  children  one  after  another,  three  of  them  in  youth,  and  two 
grown  up  to  manhood — his  two  boys,  Tom  and  Russell,  the  first-named  of  whom 
died  in  Africa  (in  1846),  an  officer  in  the  French  service,  the  other  at  Sloperton  (in 
1842),  soon  after  his  return  from  India,  having  been  compelled  by  ill-health  to  resign 
his  commission  as  a  lieutenant  in  the  25th  Regiment.  In  1835  the  influence  of 
Lord  Lansdowne  and  Lord  John  Russell  obtained  for  Moore  a  pension  of  £300  a 
year  from  Lord  Melbourne's  Government, — "  as  due  from  any  Government,  but 
much  more  from  one,  some  of  the  members  of  which  are  proud  to  think  themselves 
your  friends."  The  "  wolf,  poverty,"  therefore,  in  his  latter  years,  did  not  "  prowl  " 
so  continually  about  his  door.  But  there  was  no  fund  for  luxuries — none  for  the 
extra  comforts  that  old  age  requires.  Mrs.  Moore  received,  on  the  death  of  her 
husband,  a  pension  of  £100  a  year,  and  she  had  also  the  interest  of  the  sum  of 
£3,000, — the  sum  paid  by  the  ever-liberal  friends  of  the  poet,  the  Longmans,  for 
the  Memoirs  and  Journal  edited  by  Lord  John,  now  Earl,  Russell — a  "  lord"  whom 
the  poet  dearly  loved. 

When  his  "  Diary"  was  published — as  from  time  to  time  volumes  of  it  appeared — 
slander  was  busy  with  the  fame  of  one  of  the  best  and  most  upright  of  all  the  men 
that  God  ennobled  by  the  gift  of  genius.  For  my  own  part  I  seek  in  vain  through 
the  eight  thick  volumes  of  that  Diary  for  any  evidence  that  can  lessen  the  poet  in 
this  high  estimate.  I  find,  perhaps,  too  many  passages  fitted  only  for  the  eye  of 
love,  or  the  ear  of  sympathy ;  but  I  read  none  that  show  the  poet  other  than  the 
devoted  and  loving  husband,  the  thoughtful  and  affectionate  parent,  the  considerate 
and  generous  friend. 

That  these  volumes  contain  many  pages  that  are  valueless  is  certain,  but  that 
they  contain  anythmg  to  the  poet's  discredit  or  dishonour  is  utterly  untrue. 

Those  who  read  his  Journal  with  generous  sympathy  cannot  fail  to  have 
augmented  esteem  and  aff'ection  for  "  the  man."  His  stern  independence  might  have 
yielded  to  temptations  such  as  few  receive  and  very  few  resist :  he  preserved  it  to 
the  last,  under  circumstances  such  as  any  of  his  many  great  and  wealthy  friends 
would  have  called  "  poverty."  Of  luxuries,  from  the  commencement  of  his  career 
to  its  close,  he  had  literally  none :  his  necessities  were  at  times  severe,  but  they 
were  never  published  to  the  world — nay,  were  never  obtruded  even  on  those  who 
could,  and  certainly  would,  have  made  them  less.  In  all  the  relations  of  life  he  was 
faithful,  affectionate,  and  considerate  :  "  at  home  "  he  was  ever  loving  and  beloved  ; 
there  he  was  happiest  by  rendering  his  limited  circle  happy. 

The  biographers  of  poets  are  almost  proverbial  for  diminishing  the  giant  to  the 
dwarf.  With  a  few  grand  exceptions,  we  find  the  loftiest  precepts  humihated  by  the 
meanest  examples;  social  intercourse  degraded  by  frequent  inebriation;  poverty 
callous  to  the  "  glorious  privilege,"  condescending  to  notoriety  instead  of  suffering 
in  solitude  ;  so  mingling  the  vices  with  the  virtues,  that  worshippers  eagerly  di'aw 
the  veil  over  genius  in  private  life,  willing  to  "make  allowances,"  and  content  with 
the  record — "  they  are  not  as  other  men  are." 

How  few  great  men  are  heroes  in  their  daily  communion  ! 

The  poet  Moore  is  one  of  the  very   few  of  whom  we  may  think  and  speak 


without  a  blusli.  The  cavils  and  sneers  of  those  who  do  not  or  cannot  understand 
him  are  Hmited  to  the  "  crimes"   of  his   dining  with  lords   and  delighting  in  the 

courtesies  of  flatterers  in  rags.     Had   he  been  a  sensualist  like ,  a  drunkard 

like ,  a  pitiful  borrower  like ,  a  truckler  for  place  like ,  critics  might 

have  been  less  severe.  Alas  !  my  own  experience  might  readily  fill  up  these  blanks  : 
so  may  any  one  who  has  a  large  "  literary  acquaintance." 

I  honour  the  memory  of  Moore  for  the  virtues  he  had  and  the  vices  he  had  not. 

When  these  Memoirs — his  "  Diary" — were  first  published,  there  were  some  critics 
who  received  them  with  a  howl  of  derision  :  it  was  an  Irish  howl — unreasoning,  bitter, 
malignant.  It  came  almost  exclusively  from  his  own  countrymen  :  a  pamphlet  was 
printed  by  Charles  Phillips,  sometime  known  as  "the  Irish  orator,"  who,  having 
obtained  a  sort  of  renown  at  the  Bar  in  Ireland,  left  the  country,  and  practised 
chiefly  at  the  Old  Bailey  in  London.  He  obtained  one  of  the  Commissionerships  in 
Bankruptcy,  and  was  far  more  prosperous  as  to  worldly  circumstances  than  was 
Moore  at  any  period  of  his  life.* 

The  atrocious  attack  on  the  memory  of  Moore  in  the  Quarterly  Review  was 
written  by  John  Wilson  Croker,  who  for  many  years  held  the  lucrative  post  of 
Secretary  to  the  Admiralty.  There  are  many  living  who  remember  this  busybody 
of  the  House  of  Commons.  Small  of  person,  active,  energetic,  and  undoubtedly 
able,  his  party  found  in  him  a  zealous  and  unscrupulous  partisan.  He  is  the 
"Crawley  Junior"  of  the  novel,  "Florence  Macarthy,"  by  Lady  Morgan,  who 
detested  him,  and  she  was  "  a  good  hater."  He  was  one  of  the  originators  of  the 
John  Bull  newspaper,  and  from  him  it  received  its  tone  of  private  slander  and  public 
turpitude.  It  is,  I  believe.  Madden  who  says  of  him,  ^"  His  memory  is  buried 
beneath  a  pyramid  of  scalps." 

The  article  in  the  Quarterly  was  a  shameful  article.  It  was  the  old  illustration 
of  the  dead  lion  and  the  living  dog.  Yet  Croker  could  at  that  time  be  scarcely 
described  as  living  ;  it  was  from  his  death-bed  he  shot  the  poisoned  arrow.  And 
what  brought  out  the  venom  ?  Merely  a  few  careless  words  of  Moore's,  in  which 
he  described  Croker  as  "  a  scribbler  of  all  work," — -words  that  Earl  Russell  would 
have  erased  if  it  had  occurred  to  him  to  do  so.  No  doubt,  however,  long-pent-up 
wrath  thus  found  vent :  they  were  political  opponents  from  the  first ;  and  although 
of  Moore  it  may  be  safely  said,  "  He  lacked  gall  to  make  oppression  bitter,"  it  was 
the  very  opposite  with  John  WUson  Croker. 

*  As  I  wrote  and  printed  the  following  passages— in  April  1853— shortly  after  Phillips  published  his  pamphlet, 
and  of  course  while  he  was  living,  I  need  not  hesitate  to  reprint  them  here.  PMllips  threatened  to  prosecute  me 
for  libel :  he  did  not  carry  out  his  threat,  but  withdrew  the  pamplilet  from  circulation  : — 

"It  has  long  been  notorious  that  if  it  be  desired  to  ruin  an  Irishman,  you  can  easily  find  an  Irishman  to  do  it  :^ 
nay,  there  is  a  sort  of  proveib- 'Put  an  Irishman  upon  a  spit,  and  you'll  always  find  another  Irishman  to  turn  it. 
Mr.  Phillips  has  added  force  to  this  oijinion  :  an  old  man,  in  the  self-reproach  arising  out  of  a  career  that  has 
refiected,  to  say  the  least,  no  credit  on  his  country,  endeavours,  as  perhaps  the  latest  act  of  Ms  life,  to  prove  the 
baseness  and  wretchedness,  nay,  the  infidelity,  of  a  man  as  superior  to  his  calumniator,  in  all  that  men  esteem  and 
venerate,  as  the  light-giving  sun  is  to  the  unwholesome  vapours  that  sicken  earth.  Supposing  for  a  brief  moment 
all  the  statements  of  Counsellor  Phillips  to  be  as  true  as  they  are  untrue,  to  what  possible  motive,  except  the  very 
worst  that  may  dishonour  a  gentleman,  can  their  publication  be  attributed  1  But  few  months  have  elapsed  since 
the  great  poet  and  good  man  has  been  consigned  to  the  grave — a  humble  grave  in  a  remote  churchyard  of  a  country 
village  ;  his  childless  widow's  days  of  mourning  are  but  commenced,  when  this  infamous  attack  is  made  upon  his 
memory,  in  the  wretched  hope  and  expectation  that  the  world  wOl  abhor  the  name  that  for  more  than  half  a  centuiy 
has  been  respected  and  loved." 


THOMAS  MOORE. 


17 


Another  of  the  calumniators  of  Moore,  xvlien  lie  icas  dead,  was  Thomas  Crofton 
Croker  (a  namesake  but  no  relative  of  John  Wilson  Croker).  By  some  means  or 
other,  but  certainly  in  no  way  creditable,  was  published  a  series  of  letters  that 
had  passed  between  the  poet  and  his  song  publishers,  the  Powers ;  with  whom, 
no  doubt,  he  had  occasional  misunderstandings,  but  who  were  his  firm  friends  to  the 
last,  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Power  being  one  of  the  executors  to  the  will  of  the  poet's 
widow,  and,  as  I  have  stated,  he  it  was  who  gave  Mrs.  Moore  away  at  their  marriage 
in  1811.  The  title-page  of  this  foolish,  needless,  and  useless  book  states  that  its 
publication  "was  suppressed  in  London."  A  publisher  was,  however,  found  for  it 
in  America ;  and  Crofton  Croker  prefaced  it  by  an  "  Introductory  Letter."  It  is 
not  worth  while  now  to  confute  the  statements  made  in  that  preface — an  example  of 
"  safe  malignity  ;  "  but  they  might  be  confuted  easily. 

I  knew  Crofton  Croker  during  many  years  of  his  life  :  he  was  a  small  man — small 
in  mind  as  well  as  in  body ;  doing  many  little  things,  but  none  of  them  well  :  his 
literary  fame  rests  on  his  "  Irish  Fairy  Legends  " — a  book  of  which  he  was  only  the 
editor.  Most  of  the  stories — and  those  the  best — were  written  by  Dr.  Maginn, 
Joseph  Humphreys  (a  Quaker),  Pigot  (the  late  Irish  Chief  Baron),  Keightly,  and 
Charles  Dodd — subsequently  the  compiler  of  the  "  Parliamentary  Guide."  I  was 
the  writer  of  two  of  them  ;  I  am  the  only  one  of  the  writers  now  living. 

I  might  take  note  of  other  Irishmen  who,  when  the  poet  Moore  was  dead,  and 
therefore  an  adversary  who  could  be  insulted  safely,  did  their  best  to  dishonour  his 
name  and  cast  a  slur  upon  his  memory ;  but  the  subject  is  not  a  pleasant  one.  Is  it 
not  Macaulay  who  speaks  of  "  abject  natures  whose  delight  is  in  the  agonies  of 
powerful  spirits,  and  in  the  abasement  of  immortal  names  ?" 

Of  a  truth  it  was  well  said,  "  A  prophet  is  never  without  honour  save  in  his  own 
country."  The  proverb  is  especially  true  as  regards  Irish  prophets.  Assuredly 
Moore  was,  and  is,  more  popular  in  every  part  of  the  world  than  he  was,  or  is, 
in  Ireland.  The  reason  is  plain :  he  was,  so  to  speak,  of  two  parties,  yet  of 
neither ;  the  one  could  not  forgive  his  early  aspirations  for  liberty,  uttered  in 
imperishable  verse  ;  the  other  could  not  pardon  what  they  called  his  desertion  of 
their  cause,  when  he  saw  that  England  was  willing  to  do,  and  was  doing,  "justice  to 
Ireland." 

Let  it  be  inscribed  on  his  tomb,  that  ever,  amid  privations  and  temptations,  the 
allurements  of  grandeur  and  the  suggestions  of  poverty,  he  preserved  his  self-respect ; 
bequeathing  no  property,  but  leaving  no  debts;  having  had  no  "testimonial"  of 
acknowledgment  or  reward  ;  seeking  none,  nay,  avoiding  any  ;  making  millions  his 
debtors  for  intense  delight,  and  acknowledging  himself  paid  by  "  the  poet's  meed,  the 
tribute  of  a  smile  ;"  never  truckling  to  power  ;  labouring  ardently  and  honestly  for 
his  political  faith,  but  never  lending  to  party  that  which  was  meant  for  mankind ; 
proud,  and  rightly  proud,  of  his  self-obtained  position  ;  but  neither  scorning  nor 
slighting  the  humble  root  from  which  he  sprung. 

He  was  born  and  bred  a  Koman  Catholic  ;  but  his  creed  was  entirely  and  purely 
Catholic.  Charity  was  the  outpouring  of  his  heart :  its  pervading  essence  was  that 
which  he  expressed  in  one  of  his  Melodies, — 

c 


jS  memories. 


"  Shall  I  ask  the  brave  soldier  who  fights  by  my  side. 
In  the  cause  of  mankind,  if  our  creeds  agree  \ 
Shall  I  give  up  the  friend  I  have  valued  and  tried. 
If  he  kneel  not  before  the  same  altar  with  me  \ " 

His  children  were  all  baptized  and  educated  members  of  the  Church,  of  England. 
He  attended  the  parish  church,  and  according  to  the  ritual  of  that  church  he  was 
buried.  It  was  not  any  public  or  outward  change  of  religion,  but  homage  to  a  purer 
and  holier  faith,  that  induced  him  to  have  his  children  brought  up  as  members  of  the 
English  Church.  "  For  myself,"  he  says,  "  my  having  married  a  Protestant  wife 
gave  me  opportunity  of  choosing  a  religion  at  least  for  my  children  ;  and  if  my 
marriage  had  no  other  advantage,  I  should  think  this  quite  sufficient  to  be  grateful 
for." 

Moore  was  the  eloquent  advocate  of  his  country  when  it  was  oppressed,  goaded, 
and  socially  enthralled ;  but  when  time  and  enlightened  policy  removed  all  distinc- 
tions between  the  Irishman  and  the  Englishman— between  the  Protestant  and  the 
Roman  Catholic — his  muse  was  silent,  because  content ;  nay,  he  protested  in  em- 
phatic verse  against  a  continued  agitation  that  retarded  her  progress,  when  her  claims 
were  admitted,  her  rights'  acknowledged,  and  her  wrongs  redressed.* 

The  poetry  of  Thomas  Moore  has  been  more  extensively  read  than  that  of  any 
poet  of  the  epoch  :  those  who  might  not  have  sought  it  otherwise,  have  become  familiar 
with  it  through  the  medium  of  the  delicious  music  to  which  it  has  been  wedded ;  and 
it  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  single  educated  individual  in  Great  Britain  unable  to 
repeat  some  of  his  verses.  No  writer  has  enjoyed  a  popularity  so  universal ;  and  if 
an  author's  position  is  to  depend  on  the  delight  he  produces,  we  must  class  the 
author  of  "  Lalla  Kookh  "  and  of  the  "  Irish  Melodies  "  as  "  chiefest  of  the  bards  "  of 
modern  times. 

But  reference  to  the  genius  of  Moore  is  needless.  My  object  in  this  Memory  is 
to  offer  homage  to  his  moral  and  social  worth.  The  world  that  willingly  acknow- 
ledges its  debt  to  the  poet  has  been  less  ready  to  estimate  the  high  and  estimable 
character — the  loving  and  faithful  nature — of  the  man.  There  are,  however,  many 
— may  this  humble  tribute  augment  the  number  ! — by  whom  the  memory  of  Thomas 
Moore  is  cherished  in  the  heart  of  hearts  ;  to  whom  the  cottage  at  Sloperton  will  be  a 
shrine  while  they  live  ;  the  grave  beside  the  village  church  of  Bromham  a  monument 
better  loved  than  that  of  any  other  of  the  men  of  genius  by  whom  the  world  is 
delighted,  enlightened,  and  refined. 

Two  years  and  two  months — mournful  years  and  months — Moore  may  be  said  to 
have  lain  on  his  death-bed — dying  all  that  weary  time ;  his  mind  almost  obliterated ; 
restorations  to  reason  being  only  occasional,  and  very  partial.  His  disease  was 
softening  of  the  brain.  Sometimes  he  knew  and  recognised  his  "  Bessy  ;"  generally 
she  was  an  utter  stranger  to  his  soul  until  it  was  released  from  its  earth-fetters. 

*  Moore's  fiiend,  Thomas  Boyse  of  Bannow,  thus  wrote  to  me  on  the  eve  of  Moore's  death: — "I  know  not 
whether  you  are  aware  that  he  whose  loss  we  ai'e  soon  to  deplore  would  never  join  in  the  frantic  movement  of 
O'Connell  for  Eepeal,  and  that  therefore  (what  a  therefore !)  the  then  omnipotent  Tribune  at  once  whispered  down 
the  name  and  fame  of  our  friend  '  from  the  Giant's  Causeway  to  Cape  Clear.'  O'Connell  denounced  him  as  an 
enemy  to  freedom,  and  an  apostate  from  the  cause  of  Ireland !  You  are  aware  of  what  effects  must  result  from  such 
a  sentence,  pronounced  by  such  a  tribunal." 


THOMAS  MOORE. 


19 


During  the  whole  of  that  sad  period  she  was  never  for  an  hour  out  of  his  room.* 
She  told  us  that  when  intelligence  was  at  all  active,  he  would  ask  her  to  read  the 
Bible,  but  his  great  delight  was  to  hear  her  sing  ;  that  his  frequent  desire  was  for  a 
hymn,  "  Come  to  Jesus,"  in  the  refrain  of  which  he  always  joined,  and  which  he 
often  asked  her  to  sing  for  him  a  second  time.  Almost  his  last  words — and  they 
were  frequently  repeated — were,  '*  Lean  upon  God,  Bessy  ;  lean  upon  God  !  " 

It  was,  in  truth,  a  mournful   sight,  but  few  saw  it ;   none,  indeed,  except  the 
"  dear  wife,"  one  attendant,  and  the  clergyman  of  the  parish  and  his  daughter,  the 


\ 


^^\  \ 


'.[iHiuapWii  I 


Is  ,!  ml 


THE   GEAVE   OF   THOMAS   ilOOKE. 


loved  and  trusted  friend  of  both  the  poet  and  his  wife.  A  great  man,  so  clinging 
unwillingly  to  earth,  so  awaiting  patiently,  and  yet  eagerly,  the  call  of  his  Master, — 
it  is  sad,  but  not  altogether  sad,  to  contemplate  :  it  is  better,  nevertheless,  to  draw  a 
veil  over  the  "  last  scene  of  all." 

A  statue,  in  bronze,  of  the  poet  was  erected  on  a  space  of  ground  that  faces 
Trinity  College,  and  in  October,  1857,  it  was  inaugurated.  It  was  the  first  statue 
ever  raised  to  an  Irishman  in  a  public  thoroughfare  of  the  Irish  metropolis  ;   and 


*  The  following  passage  I  find  in  one  of  her  letters  to  Mrs.  Hall :— "  I  write  in  his  room,  but  can  hardly  see : 
my  eyes  are  very  weak." 

c2 


MEMORIES. 


I 


although  as  a  work  of  art  it  is  but  a  poor  affair,  it  is  at  least  a  record  that  Ireland 
was  not  altogether  oblivious  of  the  great  man  who  will  be  for  all  time  one  of  its 
glories. 

On  that  occasion  one  of  the  most  eloquent  of  Irishmen  mourned  over  the  melan- 
choly fact — that  fame  acquired  by  an  Irishman  creates  no  thrill  of  joy  in  the  hearts 
of  his  countrymen ;  that  honours  accorded  to  him  by  every  part  of  the  world  are 
accepted  in  that  country  without  response.  These  are  the  impressive  words  of  Baron 
O'Hagan : — "  It  is  the  sorrow  and  the  shame  of  Ireland — proverbially  incuriom 
suoriim — that  she  has  been  heretofore  too  much  in  this  respect  an  exception  amongst 
the  civilised  kingdoms  of  the  earth.  And  the  sorrow  and  the  shame  have  not  been 
less  because  she  has  been  the  parent  of  many  famous  men — of  thinkers,  and  poets, 
and  patriots,  and  warriors,  and  statesmen — whose  memory  should  be  to  her  a 
precious  heritage,  and  of  many  of  whom  she  might  speak  in  the  language  of  the 
Florentine  of  old — 

'  Tanto  nomini  nullum  par  eulogium.' " 

The  orator  hoped  for  a  more  auspicious  future  for  Irishmen  ;  but  as  yet  it  has  not 
come,  although  he  is  himself  one  of  the  most  emphatic  proofs  that  England  has  done 
"justice  "  to  Ireland.  When  Baron  O'Hagan  was  born — and  he  is  not  an  old  man — 
no  Roman  Catholic  could  have  been  even  a  Queen's  Counsel.  He,  a  Roman  Catholic, 
was  Lord  High  Chancellor  of  Ireland  ;  eight  Roman  Catholics  have  worn  the  ermine, 
at  one  time,  in  their  own  country  ;  and  a  Roman  Catholic  was,  not  long  ago,  a  Judge 
in  England.  A  hundred  pages  could  not  add  weight  to  that  single  fact  with  a  view 
to  illustrate  the  changed  condition  of  Ireland,  and  the  altered  sentiments  of  England 
as  regards  Ireland. 

I  repeat  my  belief  that  Moore  is  now,  and  was  during  his  lifetime,  less  worthily 
appreciated  and  truly  honoured  in  Ireland  than  in  any  other  country  of  the  world. 

While  a  Scottish  man  is,  so  to  speak,  born  to  an  annuity — for  his  countrymen 
ever  lend  him  "  a  helping  hand,"  and  consider  they  share,  though  it  may  be  but  a 
tiny  part,  of  the  fame  he  achieves — it  is  mournful,  yet  very  true,  to  say  of  Ireland, 
that  with  its  people  it  is  the  opposite.  Moore,  at  least  in  the  latter  part  of  his  life, 
knew  and  bitterly  felt  that  dismal  truth. 

"  That  God  is  Love,"  writes  his  friend  and  biographer.  Earl  Russell,  "was  the 
summary  of  his  belief ;  that  a  man  should  love  his  neighbour  as  himself  seems  to 
have  been  the  rule  of  his  life."  The  good  Earl  of  Carlisle,  inaugurating  the  statue  of 
the  poet,  bore  testimony  to  his  moral  and  social  worth  "  in  all  the  holy  relations  of 
life — as  son,  as  brother,  as  husband,  as  father,  as  friend ;"  and  on  the  same  occa- 
sion Baron  O'Hagan  thus  expressed  himself: — "  He  was  faithful  to  all  the  sacred 
obligations  and  all  the  dear  charities  of  domestic  life — he  was  the  idol  of  a 
household." 

Perhaps  a  better,  though  a  briefer,  summary  of  the  character  of  Thomas  Moore 
than  any  of  these  may  be  given  in  the  words  of  Dr.  Parr,  who  bequeathed  to  him  a 
ring  : — "  To  one  who  stands  high  in  my  estimation  for  original  genius,  for  his 
exquisite  sensibility,  for  his  independent  spirit,  and  incorruptible  integrity." 


I 


MRS.   MOORE. 


On  the  4th  of  September,  1865,  the  estimable  wife  of  the  poet  died.  She  rests 
beside  her  beloved  husband  and  three  of  her  children  in  the  churchyard  of  Bromham. 
I  have  said  enough  to  show  how  highly  we  estimated  her  worth — as  wife,  mother, 
friend,  and  benefactress ;  for  the  small  means  at  her  disposal  were  ever  ready  for 
distribution  among  the  neighbouring  poor.  I  have  quoted  Earl  Russell's  testimony 
to  her  many  virtues. 

Some  Recollections  of  the  excellent  lady,  by  Mrs.  Hall,  will,  I  think,  be  accept- 
able to  the  reader  ;  and  I  print  them. 

The  first  time  I  saw  Mrs.  Moore  was  at  our  own  cottage,  "The  Rosery,"  Old 
Brompton.  We  had  heard  it  was  considered  expedient  that  their  second  son,  Russell, 
should  visit  London  for  medical  advice.  We  were  going  to  Ireland  for  two  or  three 
months,  and  it  seemed  a  small  thing  to  offer  the  poet  the  use  of  our  cottage.  It  is 
the  characteristic  of  all  sensitive  minds  to  exaggerate  debts  for  services  received. 
Mr.  Moore  wrote  to  me  a  letter  expressing  warm  gratitude,  but  declined  the  offer, 
"  because  just  then  it  was  impossible  to  move  Russell  until  he  got  better.  He  hoped 
soon  to  thank  us."  The  son  who,  Mrs.  Moore  afterwards  assured  me,  had  never 
given  them  one  hour's  uneasiness,  did  not  "  get  better" — until  he  died;  but  soon 
afterwards,  some  engagement  calling  Mr.  Moore  to  town,  Mrs.  Moore  accompanied 
him,  and  came  to  see  us. 

"  There!"  he  said,  as  I  entered  the  room,  "there  is  my  Bessy;  and  I  know 
you  two  ladies  are  prepared  to  love  each  other !  " 

And  so  we  were.  Though  her  early  beauty  had  faded  under  the  influence  of 
time  and  anxiety,  enough  was  left  not  only  to  tell  of  what  she  had  been,  but  to 
excite  love  and  admiration  then.  Her  figure  and  carriage  were  perfect;  every 
movement  was  graceful :  her  head  and  throat  were  exquisitely  moulded  ;  and  her 
voice,  when  she  spoke,  was  soft  and  clear.  Moore  once  said  to  me,  "My  Bessy's 
eyes  were  larger  before  she  wept  them  away  for  her  children."  But  when  I  knew 
her,  the  sockets  were  large,  but  the  soft,  brown  eyes  fell,  as  it  were,  back.  All  her 
other  features  were  really  beautiful ;  the  delicate  nose  ;  the  sweet  and  expressive 
mouth ;  the  dimples,  now  here,  now  there  ;  the  chin  so  soft  and  rounded  ;  the  face 
a  perfect  oval.  Even  at  that  time  no  one  could  have  entered  a  room  without  mur- 
muring, "  What  a  lovely  woman  !  " 

She  spoke  of  Russell's  illness — hopefully ;  but  the  quivering  lips,  and  eyes 
suffused  with  tears,  did  not  sustain  her  words.  While  walking  with  me  round  our 
little  garden,  she  laid  bare  her  heart  in  a  few  words.  "  I  do  not  suffer  his  father  to 
believe  how  ill  he  is ;  he  will  know  it  time  enough.  Lover  painted  a  charming 
portrait  of  him.  You  will  see  it  when  you  come  to  Sloperton,  but  you  will  never 
see  him.'" 

Poor  Russell !  he  was,  as  his  mother  knew  he  would  be,  in  Bromham  Church- 
yard before  our  return  from  Ireland ;  and  more  than  a  year  elapsed  ere  we  paid  our 
first  visit  to  Sloperton.  We  were  there  a  week,  and  during  that  time  Russell's 
name  was  never  mentioned  by  either  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Moore  ;  but  one  morning  she 
called  me  into  her  bed-room,  pointed  to  a  picture,  and  left  me  alone  with  Russell's 


portrait.*  The  boy  must  have  been  very  like  his  mother.  Their  eldest  son  Tom 
was,  if  I  may  judge  from  a  miniature  of  him,  remarkably  handsome.  Poor  lad  !  he 
fell  early  into  the  ways  of  folly  ;  he  had  great  temptations,  and  yielded  to  them. 
At  his  death  there  were  debts  owing  by  him  :  they  were  all  paid  out  of  the  limited 
"  means  "  of  his  parents  ;  and  when  his  father  had  expended  every  farthing  he  could 
command  for  that  purpose,  his  mother  gathered  together  her  most  valuable  trinkets, 
took  them  into  Bath,  and  sold  them,  rather  than  that  the  taint  of  an  unpaid  debt 
should  rest  on  their  son's  name.f  Moore  passed  the  mornings  in  his  library,  the 
largest  room  in  the  cottage,  whose  pleasant  window  commanded  a  view  of  the  fields 
and  the  high  road  :  it  contained  his  books,  his  piano,  |  and  two  Irish  harps,  various 
chairs  and  tables,  which,  if  not  hallowed  by  long  residence  in  the  poet's  room,  would 
have  been  called  "mean;"  a  few  pictures  which  Mr.  Moore  did  not  care  for — as 
pictures  :  they  were  valued  from  association.  He  was  strangely  indifferent  to  art. 
"His  friends  at  Bowood,"  Mrs.  Moore  said,  "would  have  made  a  connoisseur  of 
him  had  it  been  possible,  but  it  was  not.  Scenery  he  enjoys  fully,  but  a  painted  one 
strikes  no  chord  in  his  heart." 

Even  then,  though  it  was  November,  and  we  were  seated  enjoying  his  cheerful- 
ness round  the  drawing-room  table,  he  seemed  to  have  an  instinctive  perception  that 
the  sun  was  about  to  set.  He  left  the  room,  and  a  story  unfinished,  and  we  saw 
him  pass  the  window  on  his  way  to  the  terrace-walk.  "  Sunset,"  said  Mrs.  Moore, 
laughing, — "  he  will  finish  his  story  when  he  returns."  That  raised  terrace-walk, 
enclosing  two  sides  of  his  little  domain — the  exquisitely-kept  garden — gave  the  poet 
never-ceasing  enjoyment.  There  were  seats  in  three  or  four  places,  but  the  favourite 
one  was  beneath  a  group  of,  I  think,  elm  trees,  and  there  stood  the  little  green 
wooden  table  which  dear  Mrs.  Moore  bequeathed  to  me,  and  which  is  the  most  highly 
honoured  of  all  my  mementoes  of  departed  friends.  The  poet  would  pace  up  and 
down  that  walk  for  hours,  and  pause  to  write  whatever  thoughts  he  considered 
worth  recording.  Between  those  trees  we  caught  glimpses  of  Bromham  Church. 
Mr.  Moore  was  becoming  very  absent,  and  at  times  Mrs.  Moore  seemed  pained  by 
the  efforts  she  made  to  recall,  as  it  were,  his  mind  to  our  conversation.  Even  at 
table  she  frequently  exclaimed — "Tom,  Tom,  what  are  you  thinking  of?"  His 
absence  of  mind  was,  indeed,  so  great,  that  it  gave  me  uneasiness  ;  but  Mrs.  Moore 
took  it  as  a  matter  of  course. 

I  never  knew  any  one  with  such  active  and  genial  affections  as  Moore,  except  his 
wife.     Her  nature  was  quite  as  sympathetic  as  that  of  her  husband ;  and  while  her 

*  In  one  of  Lover's  letters  to  me  he  writes  concerning  this  portrait : — "  You  ask  me  to  give  you  some  descrip- 
tion of  Russell  Moore.  You  know  how  hard,  or  rather  how  impossible,  it  is  for  words  to  convey  any  notion  of 
lineaments.  All  children's  faces  are,  to  a  certain  extent,  round ;  but  Russell's  might  have  been  remarked  for 
roundness  even  among  children — nose,  though  retrmisse,  nicely  defined  about  the  nostril;  a  pretty  mouth,  well- 
marked  eyebrows,  and  dark  brown  eyes  of  remarkable  beauty,  with  a  cei-tain  expression  of  arctmess  that  reminded 
one  of  his  father  (you  remember  what  brilliant  and  vivacious  eyes  his  were)  ;  in  short,  EusseU  Moore's  face  would 
h  ive  been  a  good  model  for  a  painter  who  wanted  a  suggestion  for  a  little  Cupid." 

t  Tom  was  undoubtedly  possessed  of  abilities.  He  obtained  a  prize  at  the  Chai'ter-House.  On  his  death,  a 
French  general  wrote  to  Mr.  Moore  to  say  he  would  have  received  the  Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honour  had  he  lived 
awlule  longer  ;  and  among  the  few  remains  sent  to  his  parents  were  note-books  and  drawings  concerning  many  of 
the  countries  of  Europe. 

t  That  piano  was  a  special  legacy  from  Mrs.  Moore  to  her  grand-niece,  with  an  injunction  that  it  was  always  to 
be  kept  in  the  family  :  "  never  to  be  parted  with."  One  of  the  harps  is  now  in  our  drawing-room,  the  gift  of  our 
valued  friend  Mrs.  Murray. 


i 


MRS.   MOORE.  23 


reverence  for  that  husband  amounted  to  devotion,  she  watched  over  him  as  a  mother 
watches  over  a  tender  and  beloved  child.  It  was  the  most  wonderful  blending  of 
admiration,  duty,  and  lovingness  I  ever  witnessed  or  could  fancy.  At  times,  even 
then — though  as  her  husband  tenderly  said,  she  had  wept  her  eyes  away  crying  for 
her  children— she  looked  radiantly  beautiful 

When  silent,  Mrs.  Moore's  mouth  was  charmingly  expressive.  It  was  not  small, 
but  it  was  beautifully  formed ;  the  lips  full  yet  delicate,  and  quivering  like  a  child's 
with  any  sudden  emotion,  giving  birth  to  little  fleeting  dimples,  and  at  times  the 
upper  lip  would  upturn  with  such  pretty  disdain,  that  it  seemed  a  pleasure  to  make 
her  a  little  angry  : — 

"  The  short  passing  anger  but  seemed  to  awaken 
New  beauties,  like  flowers  that  axe  sweetest  When  shaken," 

During  many  succeeding  months  I  heard  frequently  from  Mrs.  Moore.*  She 
sent  me  several  little  commissions  for  biscuits  of  some  particular  kind,  "  he  was  so 
fond  of  them."  She  seemed  to  me  to  watch  the  advertisements,  and  to  obtain  every- 
thmg  nourishing  or  new  to  tempt  him.  As  time  passed,  his  time  passed  with  it. 
She  was  slow  to  realise  the  agonising  fact ;  she  had  put  it  from  her,  hid  it  away, 
invented  reasons:  "his  stomach  was  out  of  order;"  "he  wanted  change;"  "he 
had  been  working  too  hard  ;"  "  the  summer  always  tried  him — he  would  be  better  in 
the  winter  ;"  or  "  the  winter  was  too  cold,  he  always  bloomed  out  with  the  flowers."  f 
One  reason  was  the  right  one  ;  like  Scott  and  Southey,  "  he  had  worked  too  hard." 
Imagination,  thought,  memory,  were  worn  out.  At  last— at  last — she  knew  it ;  the 
greatest  trial  of  her  sorely-tried  life  had  come.  Her  idol,  whom  she  worshipped 
with  perfect  enthusiasm — he  of  whose  genius  she  was  so  proud,  to  become  what  he 
was — still  tender  and  gentle,  but  mindless  as  an  infant.  She  could  not  bear  any  one 
to  see  him  in  that  state  ;  day  and  night,  night  and  day,  for  months  and  months  she 
alone  ministered  to  him,  at  his  desire  singing  him  scraps  of  hymns.  We  can  easily 
imagine  how  the  perpetual  watching  and  waiting  preyed  on  a  constitution  already 
enfeebled  by  sorrows,  which  it  had  been  her  chief  care  to  prevent  hh  feeling  in  their 
intensity.  She  was  ever  at  her  post.  The  sick  room  was  the  heart  of  the  house ; 
the  life-blood  beat  there,  more  and  more  feebly,  but  still  it  beat ;  and  then  there  was 
no  longer  need  for  watching  :  the  end  came — the  end  here  ! 

After  a  time  she  collected  his  books,  and  gave  them  and  his  Irish  harp  to  the 
Eoyal  Irish  Academy,  on  condition  that  a  room  should  be  appropriated  to  them — 
now  and  always.  That  has  been  done.  About  six  months  after  his  death  she  asked 
me  to  come  and  spend  a  few  days  with  her.  "  The  light  of  the  house  is  gone,"  she 
said,  "  but  you  can  recall  it  as  it  was."  I  found  her  changed,  yet  not  more  so  than 
I  expected,  and  I  perceived  that  the  only  pleasure  she  seemed  to  have  was  talking 

*  Her  letters  to  me  always  contained  flowers,  and  occasionally  a  sprig  of  bay.  I  have  just  opened  one  of  them  ; 
the  leaves  are  dry  and  dead,  but  there  are  loving  words  to  keep  memory  green  in  the  soul. 

+  One  of  her  touching  notes  is  now  at  my  side.  "  My  dearest  Mrs.  Hall,— He  is  now  sitting  up  with  the  window 
open,  and  the  sun  shining  on  him.  I  can  hardly  believe  that  I  write  the  truth.  His  sleep  is  excellent,  and  in  aU 
ways  he  improves  daily.  I  am  not  at  all  well,  and  begin  to  feel  I  require  rest,  which  I  will  take  if  I  can.  But  he  is 
yet  too  feeble  to  be  left,  and  I  do  not  like  to  biing  a  stranger  about  him.  Your  affectionate  B.  M.— He  is  sitting 
close  by  me,  and  is  anxious  to  walk." 


24  MEMORIES. 


about  HIM.  While  the  morning  was  yet  grey,  about  half-past  five,  I  heard  her  voice 
in  the  garden,  directing  her  old  gardener,  and  immediately  after  breakfast  she  took 
her  seat  at  the  dining-room  window,  which  she  opened,  and  waited  there  for  the 
poor  villagers,  who  never  failed  to  present  themselves  for  what  they  wanted — 
medicine,  or  soup,  or  articles  of  clothing,  or  books,  to  be  lent  or  given,  or  often  for 
a  bit  of  advice,  from  "Madam  Moore."  This  occupied  from  one  to  two  hours,  and 
then  she  would  go  upstairs,  unlock  and  enter  his  library,  where  she  would  sit  alone 
for  another  hour,  never  inviting  or  permitting  any  one  to  enter  it.  I  was  never 
once  in  it  during  either  of  my  visits  to  her.  She  swept  and  dusted  it  herself,  and 
then  sat  down  with  at  least  outward  calmness  at  the  window.  If  I  had  gone  for  a 
walk  into  the  beautiful  lanes,  or  through  the  fields  to  visit  the  tomb  in  Bromham 
Churchyard,  and  looked  up  at  the  bowery  window  as  I  entered  the  gate,  she  would 
nod  and  smile  at  me,  and  -in  the  course  of  a  little  time  come  down  to  the  drawing- 
room,  and  take  up  her  patchwork,  or  her  knitting,  or  doll-dressing  (for  she  had 
always  some  bazaar- work  on  hand),  or  cushions,  or  slippers  to  make  for  a  friend; 
and  it  often  seemed  to  me  strange  how  the  last  great  sorrow  had  tided  over  all 
others, — all  except  one.  The  eldest  son,  Tom,  was  known  to  have  died  in  Africa ; 
they  had  received  confirmatory  letters  and  all  his  "  things  "  long  ago,  but  .-j/te 
retained  fragments  of  broken  hope  that  he  would  yet  return.  One  particular 
evening  we  had  been  sitting  still  and  silent  a  long  time,  when  suddenly  the  garden 
gate  was  thrown  open,  her  pale  cheek  flushed,  she  started  up  and  looked  out,  then 
sank  into  her  chair,  "What  was  it,  dear?"  I  inquired.  "You  will  think  it  a 
weakness,"  she  said,  "  or  perhaps  insanity,  but  I  have  never  quite  believed  in  our 
son's  death,  and  I  seldom  hear  the  garden  gate  opened  at  an  unusual  hour  without  a 
hope  that  it  is  my  boy." 

She  was  then  beginning  to  suffer  from  an  internal  complaint,  that  persecuted  her 
to  the  last,  and  which  her  medical  advisers  said  had  been  brought  on  by  stooping 
over  and  turning — lifting,  in  fact — her  helpless  husband. 

Suffering  of  her  own  had  not  exhausted  her  sympathy  for  others.  She  was 
warmly  sympathetic  to  the  last,  retaining  her  taste  for  the  beautiful,  which  most 
manifested  itself  in  her  care  and  love  of  flowers.  Her  cheeks  would  flush  if  you 
brought  her  a  new  or  beautiful  flower ;  and  whenever  she  obtained  a  rare  plant,  her 
first  thought  was  how  it  could  be  divided.  Her  garden  was  like  the  widow's  cruse 
— tiny  place  though  it  was  ! — yet  such  clumps  of  lily  of  the  valley — such  roots  of 
marvellous  polyanthus — such  fragrant  violets — such  "  strikings  "  of  the  wonderful 
"  Tara  ivy,"  which  was  flourishing  when  I  paid  my  first  visit  to  Sloperton ! 

I  had  visited  her  four  times  between  the  death  of  her  husband  and  her  own,  and 
promised  her  on  my  return  from  Germany,  that  I  would  spend  some  few  autumn 
days  with  her ;  but  that  was  not  to  be ;  and  dearly  as  I  loved  her,  I  could  not 
regret  her  release  from  the  intense  suffering  she  endured,  and  which  had  so  much 
increased  of  late  as  to  render  her  once  beautiful  person  a  complete  wreck.  But 
when  hardly  able  to  stand,  she  would  creep  into  the  garden  to  see  that  hh  favourite 
terrace- walk  was  free  from  weed  or  pebble,  and  that  his  Tara  ivy,  and  whatever  he 
loved,  was  duly  cared  for.     In  our  early  friendship,  Mr.  Hall  had  sent  Mrs.  Moore 


MRS.    MOORE.  25 


some  standard  roses  ;  two  or  three  of  those  were  the  poet's  especial  favourites.  I 
was  there  when  one  of  them  showed  symptoms  of  decay  ;  it  was  painful  to  witness 
her  anxiety  about  that  tree.  Every  species  of  "  compo  "  was  applied  to  its  roots  ;  I 
might  almost  say  she  watered  it  with  her  tears.  Thoughtlessly  I  told  her  Mr.  Hall 
would  send  her  another  of  the  same  sort.  "No,  no,"  she  said  impatiently;  "he 
cannot  send  me  a  tree  on  which  my  darling  looked,  or  from  which  he  gathered  a 
blossom." 

On  the  death  of  Mrs.  Moore,  she  directed  some  relics  connected  with  her 
illustrious  husband  to  be  sent  to  us  ;  she  had,  indeed,  told  us  that  she  would  do  so. 
To  Mrs.  Hall  she  sent  an  inkstand,  presented  to  Moore  by  the  sons  of  George 
Crabbe,  and  the  small  deal  table  to  which  I  have  referred  as  standing  in  the  terrace- 
walk,  at  which  it  was  "  his  custom  to  pause  and  write  down  his  thoughts." 

Among  the  MSS.,  all  in  his  handwriting  (the  major  part,  however,  being  notes, 
chiefly  for  the  "  History  of  Ireland"),  is  one  that  contains  this  prefatory  passage  : — ■ 
"  The  first  rudiments  of  the  '  Loves  of  the  Angels,'  which  it  is  clear  I  began  and 
meant  to  continue  in  prose.     T.  M." 

Although  interesting,  they  are  mere  fragments.  One  of  them  relates  the  story 
of  St.  Jerome,  who,  complaining  of  the  slander  of  his  enemies,  wrote  that  "  if  the 
gratification  of  sense  had  been  his  pursuit,  he  would  naturally  have  selected  some  of 
those  fair  wantons  of  Rome  whose  persons  charmed  the  eye  by  every  embellishment 
of  beauty  and  of  art;  but  that,  on  the  contrary,  the  objects  of  his  attachments  were 
women  who,  by  fasting  and  humiliation,  had  not  alone  ruined  the  attractions  of 
their  forms,  but  sufi'ered  neglect  to  obscure  even  its  decencies." 

This  apology  suggested  the  following  lines  : — 

"THE    SAINT'S    LOVE. 

"  She  sleeps  among  the  pure  and  blest ; 
But  oh !  believe  me  when  I  swear 
That  while  a  spirit  thrills  my  breast, 
Her  woi'th  shall  be  remembered  there. 

"  My  tongue  shall  never  hope  to  charm, 
Unless  it  breathes  BlesUla's  name  ; 
My  fancy  ne'er  shall  beam  so  warm 
As  when  it  lights  Blesilla's  fame. 

"On  her,  where'er  my  pages  fly. 
My  pages  still  shall  life  confer, 
And  every  wise  or  beauteous  eye 
That  studies  me,  shall  weep  for  her. 

"  For  her  the  widow's  tear  shall  fall 
In  sympathy  of  single  love, 
And  holy  maids  shall  learn  to  call 
On  her  who  blooms  a  saint  above. 

"  And  many  a  learned  and  lonely  sage. 
And  many  a  monk,  recluse  and  hoary, 
Shall  love  the  lines  and  bless  the  page 
That  wafts  Blesilla's  name  to  glory." 

That  Moore  had  many  generous  friends,  with  the  power  as  well  as  the  will  to 
serve  him  is  quite  certain. 


I  found  among  the  papers  given  to  me  by  Mrs.  Moore  this  letter  from  the 
historian,  Sir  William  Napier : — 

"My  dear  Moore, 

"  Knowing  your  feelings  about  pecuniarj'  affiairs,  I  feel  almost  afraid  to  tell  you  tliat 
T  have  several  hundred  pounds  at  my  bankers  ;  that  there  is  not  the  slightest  chance  of  my  wanting 
them,  for  a  year  at  least;  and  until  your  affairs  are  arranged  with  Murray,  I  do  hope  that  you  will 
not  be  ottended  if  I  say  they  are  at  your  service. 

"  Wm.  Napier." 

I  find  also  in  one  of  his  loose  memorandum-books  this  passage  : — 

"  On  looking  through  these  pages,  I  have  lighted  on  some  remarks  respecting  Lord  Lands- 
downe,  in  which  he  is  represented  as  having  been  wanting  in  those  pecuniary  services  towards  me 
which  his  great  wealth  enabled  him  to  bestow  on  me.  Without  entering  into  particulars  on 
this  subject,  I  will  only  say  that,  when  my  embarrassment  wore  its  worst  aspect,  Lord  L. 
came  forward  to  take  the  whole  weight  of  my  loss,  whatever  it  might  be,  on  himself." 

When  Mrs.  Moore  died  she  bequeathed  all  the  little  she  had  to  leave  to  her 
nephew,  Charles  Murray ;  and  he  has  since  been  called  from  earth,  leaving  a 
widow  (a  most  estimable  lady)  and  two  lovely  daughters.  Mr.  Murray  was  a  most 
excellent  and  accomplished  gentleman,  respected,  regarded,  indeed  beloved  by  all 
who  knew  him.  He  had  much  of  the  ready  dramatic  talent  inherited  from  his  father, 
one  of  the  lights  of  the  early  Scottish  stage.  He  was  a  brilliant  companion,  sang 
sweetly,  and  occasionally  gave  marvellous  effect  to  comic  songs.  His  widow  presented 
to  us  many  relics  of  the  Poet,  among  others,  the  pencil-case  he  always  used,  a  small 
harp  that  occasionally  accompanied  him  to  friendly  parties,  a  small  Bible,  in  which 
were  recorded  the  names  and  birthdays  of  the  five  children,  some  autograph  letters 
of  deep  interest,  and  several  manuscripts. 

And  now  there  remain,  I  believe,  excepting  these  two  fair  girls,  none  of  the  race 
on  either  side. 

Like  Byron,  and  Scott,  and  Southey,  and  Campbell,  and  a  score  others  of  the 
greatest  men  of  the  past  age,  the  name  is  represented  by  "  no  son  of  his  descending  ;  " 
yet  of  each  the  name  will  live  for  ever,  inseparable  from  the  land's  language.* 

*  It  is  not  long  since  we  had  as  guests  in  oui  drawing-room  Maria  Edgeworth  and  Felicia  Hemans,  the  grand- 
daughters of  oiu'  old  and  honom'ed  frieiids  of  half  a  century  ago. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOE  COLEEIDGE. 

OETEY  has  been  to  me  its  own  '  exceeding  great  reward  ; ' 
it  has  soothed  my  afflictions,  it  has  multiplied  and  refined 
my  enjoyments,  it  has  endeared  solitude,  it  has  given  me 
the  habit  of  wishing  to  discover  the  good  and  the  beau- 
tiful in  all  that  meets  and  surrounds  me."  These  elo- 
quent and  impressive  words  prefaced  a  book  of  poems 
bearing  date  "May,  1797,"  and  up  to  a  summer  morning 
in  1834,  when,  "  under  the  pressure  of  long  and  painful 
disease,"  he  yielded  to  the  universal  conqueror,  and 
joined  the  beatified  spirits  who  praise  God  without  let 
or  hindrance  from  earth,  the  comfort  and  consolation 
thence  derived  had  brought  continual  happiness  to 
Yet  was  the  joy  of  his  heart  and  mind  drawn  from  a  far 
higher  source.  He  lived  and  died  a  Christian,  seeking  salvation  "  through  faith  in 
Jesus,  the  Mediator,"  and  earnestly  and  devoutly  teaching  "thanksgiving  and  adoring 
love,"  ending  his  last  will  and  testament  with  these  memorable  words — "  His  staff 
AND  His  eod  alike  comfoet  me." 

It  is  a  rare  privilege  to  have  known  such  a  man.  The  influence  of  one  so  truly 
good  as  well  as  great  cannot  have  been  transitory.  It  is  a  joy  to  me  now — nearly 
fifty  years  after  his  departure.     I  seem  to  hear  the  melodious  voice,  and  look  upon 


Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


the  gentle,  gracious,  and  loving  countenance  of  "the  old  man  eloquent,"  as  I  write 
this  Memory,  a  memory  of  him  who, — 

"  in  bewitching  words,  with  happy  heart, 
Didst  chaunt  the  vision  of  that  Ancient  Man, 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner,  and  rueful  woes 
Didst  utter  of  the  Lady  Christabel." 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  was  born  at  St.  Mary  Ottery,  on  the  21st  October,  1772, 
and  was  thus  a  native  of  my  own  beautiful  county — the  county  of  Devon. 

"  Sweet  shire,  that  bounteous  Nature  richly  dowers  ; 
Sweet  shire,  whose  glens  and  dells  are  faiiy  bowers ; 
Sweet  shii'e,  whose  very  weeds  are  fragi-ant  flowers." 

His  father,  the  Eev.  John  Coleridge,  Vicar  of  Ottery,  and  head  master  of  Henry  YIII.'s 
Free  Grammar  School — "the  King's  School" — was  a  man  of  considerable  learning, 
and  also  of  much  eccentricity.  Many  singular  stories  are  told  of  him  :  among  others, 
that  he  occasionally  addressed  his  peasant  congregation  in  Hebrew. 

Coleridge  was  a  solitary  child,  the  youngest  of  a  large  family.  Of  weakly  health, 
"  huffed  away  from  the  enjoyments  of  muscular  activity ;  driven  from  life  in  motion 
to  life  in  thought  and  sensation,"  he  had  "  the  simplicity  and  docility  of  a  child,  but 
not  the  child's  habits,"  and  early  sought  solace  and  companionship  in  books.  In 
The  Friend  he  informs  us  he  had  read  a  volume  of  "  The  Arabian  Nights"  before  his 
fifth  birthday.  Through  the  interest  of  Judge  Buher,  one  of  his  father's  pupils,  he 
obtained  a  presentation  to  Christ's  Hospital,  and  was  placed  there  on  the  18th  July, 
1782.  Christ's  Hospital — the  Bluecoat  School- — was  in  1782  very  different  from 
what  it  is  in  1876.  The  hideous  dress  is  now  the  only  relic  of  the  old  management 
that  made  "  such  boys  as  were  friendless,  depressed,  moping,  half-starved,  objects 
of  reluctant  and  degrading  charity."  There  is  little  doubt  that  the  treatment  he 
received  induced  a  weakness  of  stomach  that  was  the  parent  of  much  after-misery. 
The  head  master  was  the  Rev.  James  Bowyer.  Coleridge  writes  of  him  : — He  was 
"  a  sensible,  though  a  severe  master,"  to  whom  "lute,  harp,  and  lyre,  muses  and 
inspirations,  Pegasus,  Parnassus,  and  Hippocrene,  were  abominations."  De  Quincey 
considers  his  great  idea  was  to  "flog;  "  "the  man  knouted  his  way  through  life 
from  bloody  youth  up  to  truculent  old  age."  And  Gillman  relates  that  to  such  a 
pitch  did  he  carry  this  habit,  that  once  when  a  lady  called  upon  him  on  "  a  visit 
of  intercession,"  and  was  told  to  go  away,  but  lingered  at  the  door,  the  master 
exclaimed,  "  Bring  that  woman  here,  and  I'll  flog  her'.''  Leigh  Hunt  thus  describes 
the  tyrant  of  the  school : — "  His  eye  was  close  and  cruel ;  "  "his  hands  hung  out  of 
the  sleeves  of  his  coat  as  if  ready  for  execution."  He  states  that  Coleridge,  when 
he  heard  of  the  man's  death,  said  "  it  was  lucky  the  cherubim  who  took  him  to 
heaven  were  nothing  but  faces  and  wings,  or  he  would  infallibly  have  flogged  them 
by  the  way." 

Among  his  schoolfellows  were  Charles  Lamb  and,  later,  Leigh  Hunt.  The  friend- 
ship with  Lamb,  then  commenced,  endured  unchangingly  through  life.  In  one  of 
the  pleasantest  of  his  essays  he  recalls  to  memory  "the  evenings  when  we  used  to 
sit  and  speculate  at  our  old  Salutation  Tavern  upon  pantisocracy  and  golden  days  to 


i 


COLERIDGE.  29 


come  on  earth."     Wordsworth  told  Judge  Coleridge  that  many  of  his  uncle's  sonnets 
were  written  from  the  "  Cat  and  Salutation,'"''  ., 

where  Coleridge  had  "  imprisoned  himself  for 
some  time;"  and  Talfourd  tells  us  it  was 
there  Lamb  and  Coleridge  used  to  meet,  talk- 
ing of  poets  and  poetry,  or,  as  Lamb  says, 
"  beguiling  the  cares  of  life  with  poetry, — 

'  Our  lonely  path  to  cheer,  as  travellers  use, 
With  merry  tale,  quaint  song,  or  roundelay.' " 


iV) 


^ 


Yet  full  draughts  of  knowledge  Coleridge 
certainly  took  in  at  Christ's  Hospital.  Before 
his  fifteenth  year  he  "  had  translated  the  eight 
hymns  of  Synesius  from  the  Greek  into 
English  anacreontics  ;  "  he  became  captain 
of  the  school ;  and  in  learning  soon  out- 
stripped all  competitors.  "  From  eight  to 
eighteen,"  he  writes,"  I  was  a  playless  day- 
dreamer,  clumsy,  slovenly,  heedless  of  dress, 
and  careless  as  to  personal  appearance, 
treated  with  severity  by  an  unthinking  master, 
yet  ever  luxuriating  in  books,  wooing  the 
muse,  and  wedded  to  verse."  Ij 

At  the  age  of  eighteen,  on  the  7th  of 
February,  1790,  after  much  discomfort  and 
misery,  he  left  Christ's  Hospital  for  Jesus 
College,  Cambridge.  His  fellow- scholars  even 
then    anticipated   for    him   the    fame    which  ^ 

many  of  them  lived  to  see.  "  The  friendly  (^^ 
cloisters  and  happy  groves  of  quiet,  ever- 
honoured  Jesus  College  "  he  quitted  without 
a  degree,  although  he  obtained  honours — - 
poetical  honours,  that  is  to  say.  His  reading 
was  too  desultory ;  in  mathematics  he  made 
no  way  ;  there  was,  consequently,  little  chance 
of  the  University  providing  him  with  an  in- 
come, and  he  had  to  take  his  chance  in  the 
world.  During  his  residence  at  Cambridge 
occurred  that  romantic  episode  with  which 
all  readers  are  familiar.  Having  come  up 
to  London  greatly  dispirited,  on  the  3rd  of 
December,    1793,    he    enlisted    in    the  15th 


*  In  the  several  memoirs  of  Coleridge  and  of  Lamb,  the  inn  is  described  as  being  in  Smithfield  ;  I  believe, 
however,  it  is  in  Newgate  Street,  No.  17.  Peter  Cunningham  so  states.  Cunningham  adds  that  "  here  Southey  found 
out  Coleridge,  and  sought  to  move  him  from  the  torpor  of  inaction."  Lamb,  in  his  femous  letter  to  Southey, 
lemiads  him  of  their  meetings  at  the  old  tavern. 


30  MEMORIES. 


Light  Dragoons,  under  the  name  of  Silas  Tomkin  Cumberhatch.  The  story  is  told 
in  various  ways.  Joseph  Cottle,  who  professes  to  gather  the  facts  from  several 
"  scraps  "  supplied  by  Coleridge  at  various  times,  infers  that  he  enlisted  because  he 
was  crossed  in  love.  He  made,  of  course,  a  bad  soldier,  and  a  worse  rider.  He 
did  not  long  remain  in  the  army.  According  to  Cottle,  he  was  standing  sentry 
when  two  officers  passed  who  were  discussing  one  of  the  plays  of  Euripides, 
Coleridge,  touching  his  cap,  "  corrected  their  Grreek."*  Another,  and  more 
probable,  statement  is  that  one  of  the  officers  of  the  troop  discovered  some  Latin 
lines  which  Coleridge  had  pinned  up  to  the  door  of  a  stable.  The  discovery  of  his 
scholarship  was  made,  however ;  his  discharge  was  soon  arranged  ;  and  he  was 
restored  to  the  University.  Miss  Mitford,  in  her  "  Recollections,"  states  that  the 
arrangements  for  his  discharge  took  place  at  her  father's  house  at  Reading,  where 
the  15th  was  then  quartered,  and  adds  that  it  was  much  facilitated  by  one  of  the 
servants  who  "  waited  at  the  table  "  agreeing  to  enlist  in  his  stead. 

What  motive  swayed  the  judgment,  or  what  stormy  "impulse  drove  the 
passionate  despair  of  Coleridge  into  quitting  Jesus  College,  Cambridge,  was  never 
clearly  or  certainly  made  known  to  the  very  nearest  of  his  friends."  De  Quincey, 
who  writes  this,  adds  that  he  enlisted  "  in  a  frenzy  of  unhappy  feeling  at  the 
rejection  he  met  with  from  the  lady  of  his  choice."  In  1836  I  published  in  the 
'New  MontJihj  Magazine  an  article  entitled  "  A  letter  from  Wales  by  the  late  S.  T. 
Coleridge."  It  was  addressed  to  Mr.  Marten,  a  clergyman  in  Dorsetshire.  Coleridge 
being  at  Wrexham,  standing  at  the  window  of  the  inn,  there  passed  by,  to  his  utter 
astonishment,  a  young  lady,  "  Mary  Evans,  quam  afflict  am  et  ]jerdite  amaham — yea, 
even  to  anguish."  "I  sickened,"  he  adds,  "  and  well-nigh  fainted,  but  instantly 
retired.  God  bless  her !  Her  image  is  in  the  sanctuary  of  my  bosom,  and  never 
can  it  be  torn  thence  but  with  the  strings  that  grapple  my  heart  to  life."  May  not 
this  incident,  which  seems  to  have  been  unknown  to  his  biographers,  supply  a  key 
to  the  motive  of  his  enlistment,  as  surmised  by  both  Cottle  and  De  Quincey  ? 

After  his  return  to  Cambridge  he  formed,  with  Southey,  the  scheme  of  emigrating 
to  America.  Southey,  in  a  letter  to  Montgomery  long  afterwards,  thus  briefly 
explains  it : — "  We  planned  an  Utopia  of  our  own,  to  be  founded  in  the  wilds  of 
America,  upon  the  basis  of  common  property,  each  labouring  for  all — a  Pantisockacy 
— a  republic  of  reason  and  virtue."  And  Joseph  Cottle  writes  : — "  In  1794  Robert 
Lovell,  a  clever  young  Quaker,  who  had  married  a  Miss  Fricker,  informed  me  that 
a  few  friends  of  his  from  Oxford  and  Cambridge,  with  himself,  were  about  to  sail  to 
America,  and  on  the  banks  of  the  Susquehana  to  form  a  '  social  colony,'  in  which 
there  was  to  be  a  community  of  property,  and  where  all  that  was  selfish  was  to  be 

*  In  1837,  after  the  death  of  Coleridge,  a  volume  of  "  Early  EecoUections  "  of  the  poet  was  published  by  Joseph 
Cottle,  the  bookseller  of  Bristol,  by  whom  the  poems  of  Southey,  Wordsworth,  and  Coleridge  were  originally 
published  in  1794.  The  book  is  not  "to  be  entirely  depended  upon."  So,  at  least,  Southey  says.  Yet  it  is  full  of 
curious  and  most  interesting  matter,  and,  beyond  doubt,  the  publisher  was  the  attached,  and  generous,  and  sympa- 
thising friend  of  the  three  immortal  men  whom  he  may  be  said  to  have  introduced  to  the  world.  James  Montgomery's 
view  of  this  work  seems  to  me  a  just  one  :  "  that  the  reminiscent  had  not  printed  a  single  remark  that  was  either 
dishonourable  to  himself  or  derogatory  to  the  friendship  that  had  existed  between  him  and  the  highly-gifted 
individuals."  Cottle's  bookshop  stood  at  the  N.E.  comer  of  High  Street ;  the  house  was  burnt  down  long  ago,  and 
has  been  rebuilt.  His  residence  was  firfield  House,  Knowle,  near  Bristol,  where  he  died  in  1853,  in  his  eighty- 
foui-th  year. 


COLERIDGE.  31 


proscribed."  Two  of  the  "  patriots  "  were  introduced  to  the  more  prudent  book- 
seller :  one  of  them  was  Coleridge,  the  other  Southey.  It  was  speedily  ascertained 
that  their  combined  funds,  instead  of  sufficing  to  "freight  a  ship,"  would  not  have 
purchased  changes  of  clothing ;  and  very  soon  the  Pantisocratic  trio  were  necessi- 
tated to  borrow  a  little  money  from  the  bookseller  to  pay  their  lodgings,  which  were 
then  at  48,  College  Street,  Bristol  (the  house  is  still  standing,  and  remains  in  nearly 
its  original  condition).  The  scheme  was,  of  course,  abandoned,  and  Coleridge  and 
Southey  married  the  two  sisters  of  Mr.  Lovell's  wife,  resolved  to  settle  down,  for  the 
present  at  least,  at  Bristol,  with  the  intention  of  devoting  themselves  to  literature.* 

The  shades  of  Chatterton,  Southey,  Coleridge,  Wordsworth,  Lamb,  Davy,  Cottle, 
Lloyd,  and  of  many  others  who  are  "  famous  for  all  time,"  consecrate  the  streets  of 
Bristol.  A  dark  cloud  has  for  ever  settled  over  the  proud  church  of  the  Canynges, 
although  a  monument  recalls  the  memory  of  the  "  marvellous  boy"  whose  birthplace 
is  but  a  stone's  throw  off — whose  grave  is  past  finding  out  among  the  accumulated 
rubbish  of  a  graveyard  in  London.  In  Bristol  great  Southey  was  born,  and  there 
(in  the  city  jail)  Savage  died,  his  grave,  in  one  of  the  churchyards,  yet  unmarked  by 
a  memorial  stone. f  Here  immortal  Wordsworth  first  saw  himself  in  print;  here 
Humphry  Davy  had  a  vision  of  a  lamp  of  greater  worth  than  that  of  the  fabled 
Aladdin  ;  here  dwelt  the  profound  essayist,  John  Foster  ;  here  Eobert  Hall  glorified 
a  Nonconformist  pulpit ;  here  Hannah  More  taught  to  the  young  imperishable  lessons 
of  virtue,  order,  piety,  and  truth;  here  the  sisters,  Jane  and  Anna  Maria  Porter, 
dwelt  in  early  youth  and  in  venerated  age  ;  and  here  the  artists  Lawrence,  Bird, 
Danby,  Pyne,  and  MuUer  earned  their  first  loaves  of  dry  bread.  But  Bristol  was 
never  the  nourishing  mother  of  genius  ;  the  birds  from  her  nest,  as  soon  as  full- 
fledged,  went  forth — thenceforward  uncared  for  ;  they  obtained  no  affection,  and 
manifested  no  attachment.  Here  and  there  a  few  lines  of  tributary  verse,  and  a 
gracious  memory,  bear  misty  records  of  friendships  formed  and  services  accorded  in 
the  great  city  of  commercial  prosperities  ;  but  Bristol  has  assuredly  not  honoured, 
neither  has  she  been  honoured  by,  the  worthies  who  in  a  sense  belong  to  her,  and  of 
whom  all  the  rest  of  the  world  is  rightly  and  justly  proud. 

While  at  college  Coleridge  imbibed  Socinian  opinions,  and  his  mind  became 
"  terribly  unsettled."  In  his  Monody  on  the  Death  of  Chatterton  ("  sweet  harper 
of  time-shrouded  minstrelsy")  he  thus  indicated  his  sad  and  perilous  forebodings  : — 

"  I  dare  no  longer  on  the  sad  theme  muse, 
Lest  kindred  woes  persuade  a  kindred  doom." 

He  tells  us  that  before  his  fifteenth  year  he  had  bewildered  himself  in  meta- 
physics and  theological  controversy,  "  and  found  no  end,  in  wandering  mazes  lost." 
One  of  the  experiments,  as  to  his  future,  was  to  become  a  preacher.  He  was  looked 
upon  by  the  Bristolians  as  the  rising  star  of  Unitarianism,  and  he  did  actually,  on  a 
few  occasions,  preach.     He  preached  indeed,  but  in   so   odd  a  dress  and  so  out  of 


*  The  miserable  sneer  of  Byron  will  be  remembered  ;  but  the  "three   sisters"  were  of  Bristol,  and  not  of 
"  Bath  ;  "  in  "  Don  Juan  "  they  were  transfeixed  to  Bath  because  the  word  suited  better  than  Bristol  for  the  rhyme 

t^  I  suRpested  to  a  respected  merchant  of  Bristol  the  removal  of  this  reproach  from  the  city,  and  I  rejoice  to 
say  it  has  been  done.    I  see  no  reason  why  I  should  not  mention  the  name— Mr.  Wilham  Henry  Wills. 


MEMORIES. 


the  usual  routine,  that  it  was  quite  clear,  as  a  minister,  "  he  would  not  do."*  Yet 
Hazlitt  thus  describes  one  of  the  sermons  of  the  "half-inspired  speaker:" — "I 
could  not  have  been  more  delighted  if  I  had  heard  the  music  of  the  spheres.  Poetry 
and  philosophy  had  met  together ;  truth  and  genius  had  embraced  under  the  eye, 
and  with  the  sanction,  of  Religion." 

It  was  not  long,  however,  before  he  struggled  through  the  slough  of  Socinianism, 
and  was  freed  from  the  trammels  of  infidelity.  Cottle  records  how  "he  professed 
the  deepest  conviction  of  the  truths  of  Revelation,  of  the  fall  of  man,  of  the 
divinity  of  Christ,  and  redemption  alone  through  His  blood,"  and  had  heard  him 
say,  in  argument  with  a  Socinian  minister,  "  Sir,  you  give  up  so  much,  that  the  little 
you  retain  of  Christianity  is  not  worth  keeping."  He  is  also  represented  as  saying 
of  Socinians  on  another  occasion,  that  "if  they  were  to  offer  to  construe  the  will  of 
their  neighbour  as  they  did  that  of  their  Maker,  they  would  be  scouted  out  of 
society  ;  "  and  he  eagerly  protested  against  the  theory  that  there  was  "  «o  sphitual 
world,  and  no  spiritual  life  in  a  spiritual  world.''  He  had  "  skirted  the  howling 
deserts  of  infidelity,"  but  he  had  found  a  haven — one  that  sheltered  him  in  pain,  in 
trouble,  even  in  the  agonies  of  self-reproach.  He  became  a  thorough  Christian,  and 
ever  after,  in  all  his  speakings  and  writings,  was  the  advocate  of  the  Redeemer, 
proclaiming  in  a  memorable  letter  to  his  godson,  Adam  Steinmetz  Kinnaird,  and  on 
many  other  opportunities,  that  "  the  greatest  of  all  blessings,  and  the  most  ennobling 
of  all  privileges,  was  to  be  indeed  a  Christian."  This  passage  is  from  his  last  will 
and  testament  (dated  September  17,  1829).  A  few  of  the  small  things  of  earth  he 
had  to  leave  he  bequeathed  to  Ann  Gillman,  "  the  wife  of  my  dear  friend,  my  love 
for  whom,  and  my  sense  of  unremitting  goodness  and  never-wearied  kindness  to  me, 
I  hope,  and  humbly  trust,  will  follow  me  as  a  part  of  my  abiding  being  in  that  state 
into  which  I  hope  to  rise,  through  the  merits  and  mediation,  and  by  the  efiicacious 
power,  of  the  Son  of  Grod  incarnate,  in  the  blessed  Jesus,  whom  I  believe  in  my 
heart,  and  confess  with  my  mouth,  to  have  been  from  everlasting  the  way  and  the 
truth,  and  to  have  become  man,  that  for  fallen  and  sinful  men  He  might  be  the 
resurrection  and  the  life." 

In  1796  he  started  a  publication  which  he  called  the  Watchman,  the  motto  of 
which  was,  "  That  all  might  know  the  truth,  and  that  the  truth  might  make  us 
free."  The  first  number  was  issued  on  the  5th  of  February,  1796,  to  be  published 
every  eighth  day,  at  the  price  of  fourpence.  It  soon  died,  involving  its  editor  in  a 
heavy  debt,  which,  happily,  a  friend  discharged.  In  the  "  Biographia  Literaria  " 
there  is  a  lively  account  of  his  travels  in  search  of  subscribers,  mingled  with  some 
painful  reminiscences  of  "those  days  of  shame  and  regret,"  the  degrading  anxieties 
of  his  canvass.  He  was  reminded  by  one  to  whom  he  applied,  that  twelve  shillings 
a  year  was  a  large  sum  to  be  bestowed  on  one  person,  when  there  were  so  many 
objects  of  charity ;  a  noble  lord,  vi^hose  name  had  been  given  him  as  a  subscriber, 

*  Joseph  Cottle  says— "He  preached  twice  at  the  Socinian  chapel  in  Bath,  in  blue  coat  and  white -waistcoat, 
once  on  the  Corn  Laws  and  once  on  the  hair-powder  tax  !  "  The  answer  of  Charles  Lamb  will  be  called  to  mind. 
Coleridge  asked  him,  "  Charles,  did  you  ever  hear  me  preach  1"  "I  never  heard  you  do  anything  else,"  was  the 
reply. 


COLERIDGE.  ,, 


reproved  him  for  impudence  in  directing  his  pamphlets  to  him;  a  rich  tallow- 
chandler  was  "  as  great  a  one  as  any  man  in  Brummagem  for  liberty  and  them  sort 
of  thmgs,"  but  begged  to  be  excused  ;  while  an  opulent  cotton-dealer  in  Manchester 
was  "  overrun  with  these  articles,"  and  another  "  had  no  time  for  reading,  and  no 
money  to  spare."  At  the  ninth  number  he  "  dropped  the  work,"  and  had  the 
satisfaction^  of  seeing  his  servant  light  his  fires  with  the  surplus  stock,  recording  the 
event  in  this  expressive  line — 

"  O  Watchman,  thou  hast  watched  in  vain  ! " 

But,  in  truth,  he  soon  disgusted  all  his  Jacobin  supporters  by  attacking  "modern 
patriotism,"  and  raising  a  warning  voice  against  it.  Like  "  Balaam,  the  son  of  Beor," 
he  blessed  where  he  was  employed  to  curse.  Instead  of  advocating  infidelity  and 
the  freedom  that  France  was  then  brewing  in  her  infernal  caldron,  French  morals, 
and  French  philosophy,  he  "  avowed  his  conviction  that  national  education,  and  a 
concurring  spread  of  the  Gospel,  were  the  indispensable  condition  of  any  true 
political  amelioration."  Loyalty  is  now  the  easiest  of  all  our  duties— thank  God  ! 
It  was  not  so  when  Coleridge,  Southey,  and  Wordsworth  were  Kepublicans.  While 
residing  at  Stowey,  and  having  Wordsworth  for  his  constant  companion,  Coleridge 
and  his  friend  were  suspected  of  being  Jacobins ;  they  were  actually  placed  under 
surveillance,  and  a  spy  was  ordered  to  watch  their  movements.  They  were  guilty  of 
talking  to  each  other  "real  Hebrew  Greek,"  and  of  wandering  about  the  hills  with 
papers  in  their  hands ;  but  nothing  more  formidable  being  urged,  they  remained  at  large. 

The  help  of  Josiah  and  Thomas  Wedgwood  —  worthy  sons  of  a  great  father, 
honoured  be  the  name  ! — by  settling  on  Coleridge  an'annuity  of  £150,  placed  him  at 
comparative  ease.  "Thenceforward,"  he  writes,  "  instead  of  troubling  others  with 
my  own  crude  notions,  I  was  better  employed  in  attempting  to  store  my  own  head 
with  the  wisdom  of  others."  By  that  help  "I  was  enabled  to  finish  my  education 
in  Germany."  In  September,  1798,  he  sailed  with  Wordsworth  and  his  sister  from 
Great  Yarmouth  to  Hamburg.  He  was  but  fourteen  months  absent,  and  returned  to 
London  in  November,  1799.  The  fruits  of  his  journey  were  seen  in  his  translation 
of  "  Wallenstein,"  which  he  wrote  at  a  lodging  in  Buckingham  Street,  Strand.  His 
travels  in  Germany,  entitled  "Fragments  of  a  Journey  over  the  Brocken,"  &c., 
he  gave  to  me  in  1828,  for  publication  in  the  Amulet  (one  of  the  then  popular 
"  Annuals,"  of  which  I  was  editor  from  the  year  1825  to  the  year  1836) ;  they  were 
subsequently  reprinted  by  Mr.  Gillman,  in  his  Life  of  Coleridge.*  They  contained 
the  well-known  poem — 

"  I  stood  on  Brocken's  sov'ran  height." 

He  was  soon  afterwards  engaged  in  the  literary  department  of  the  Morning  Post. 
Subsequently  he  visited  Malta,  Rome,  Naples,  and  other  parts  of  Italy,  from  which, 

*  Tn  1835  I  printed,  in  the  New  Monthly  Magazine,  of  which  I  was  then  the  editor,  three  letters  from  Coleridge  to 
his  wife  (his  "  dearest  love,"  from  her  "  faithful  hustand  "),  dated  May,  1799,  which  contain  more  details  of  his  tour 
than  are  found  ia  the  "  Fragments."  T  cannot  call  to  mind  from  whom  I  received  them  :  a  prefatory  note  states 
that  they  were  given  to  the  writer  by  Mr.  Coleridge  in  ]8'28.  It  would  appear  that  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  did 
not  long  travel  together :  Coleridge  names  his  companions— Wordsworth  is  not  among  them.  One  of  them.  Dr. 
Clement  Carlyon,  F.R.S.,  published  in  1836  a  volume  entitled  "Early  Years  and  Late  Eecollections,"  a  principal 
part  of  which  is  occupied  with  details  of  this  tour  ;  it  contains  very  little  of  any  value.  He  states,  however,  that 
the  beautiful  poem,  "  I  stood  on  Brocken's  sov'ran  height,"  was  certainly  wiitten  at  the  inn  at  AVerningerode. 

D 


34  MEMORIES. 


1 


however,  he  made  a  rapid  exit,  an  order  for  his  arrest  having  been  sent,  it  is  said, 
by  Buonaparte,  in  consequence  of  his  writings  in  the  Morning  Post. 

The  Friend,  another  literary  venture,  was  published  weekly  ;  it  reached  its 
twenty-seventh  number,  and,  like  the  Watchman,  ceased  from  want  of  support.  It 
was  unfortunately  printed  at  Penrith,  and  Coleridge  was  actually  induced  to  set  up 
a  printer  there,  to  buy  and  lay  in  a  stock  of  type,  paper,  &c.  The  result  was 
assured;  the- printer  failed,  and  Coleridge  had  to  sustain  a  severe  pecuniary  loss. 

The  circumstances  that  kept  Coleridge  apart  from  his  wife  during  the  greater 
portion  of  his  life  form  one  of  those  hidden  mysteries  into  which  it  is  not  our 
business  to  inquire.  Coleridge  was  married  to  Miss  Sara  Fricker  on  the  4th  of 
October,  1795,  at  the  church  of  St.  Mary  Redcliff,  Bristol.  There  is  abundant 
testimony  to  the  amiable  qualities  and  pure  character  of  Mrs.  Coleridge.  De  Quincey, 
perhaps,  is  the  best  authority  on  the  subject: — "She  was  in  all  circumstances  a 
virtuous  wife  and  a  conscientious  mother."  Moreover,  she  was  by  no  means 
common-place:  the  affection  borne  for  her  by  her  sister's  husband,  Southey,  and 
her  long  and  close  companionship  with  the  high-souled  Laureate,  woiild  suffice  as 
evidence  on  that  head.  De  Quincey  records  that,  wishing  her  daughter  to  learn 
Italian,  and  in  her  retirement  at  Keswick  finding  it  impossible  to  procure  the  aid  of 
a  master,  she  resolutely  set  herself  to  the  task  of  acquiring  the  language,  that  she 
might  teach  it  to  her  child  ;  and  Cottle  prints  a  poem  written  by  her  of  more  than 
ordinary  merit.  I  received  the  following  note  concerning  Mrs.  Coleridge  from  one 
who  knew  her  well  and  loved  her  dearly : — "  She  was  a  woman  of  rare  qualities, 
very  clever  and  accomplished,,  witty,  and  possessed  of  taste. and  judgment  in  no 
common  measure  ;  extremely  industrious,  labouring  for  the  mental  and  bodily  needs 
of  her  children  through  a  long  life.  Frugality  in  her  reached  to  a  great  virtue.  She 
was  of  transparent  truthfulness,  in  thought,  word,  and  deed.  Her  unusually  clear 
statements  were  very  striking  both  in  writing  and  speaking.  She  probably  withheld 
her  '  candid  admiration  of  her  husband's  intellectual  powers,'  which  she  undoubtedly 
was  quite  capable  of  appreciating,  for  she  was  impatient  of  what  she  conceived  to  be 
his  impractical  habits  in  matters  of  daily  life,  and  that  by  which  it  must  be  clothed 
and  fed.  I  have  heard  her  speak  sadly  on  that  point ;  and  I  have  often  heard  her 
speak  most  emphatically  of  his  purity,  of  his  uncommon  gifts,  and  of  his  unlikeness 
to  ordinary  men.  They  took  a  pride  in  each  other  to  the  last.  The  mystery  of 
their  long  separation  can  better  be  solved  by  the  very  common -place  facts  of 
difficulties  in  matters  of  L.  S.  D.  than  in  any  of  the  guesses  that  meet  one  on  every 
side.  Had  Samuel  Taylor  Coleiidge  been  a  rich — or  even  moderately  well-off — 
man,  he  and  his  wife  would  have  undoubtedly  ended  their  days  under  the  same 
roof.  An  unromantic  explanation,  but  nevertheless  the  true  one.  They  now  rest 
side  by  side  in  Highgate  Churchyard."  * 

*  These  lines  are  from  a  poem  addressed  by  Coleridge  to  his  "pensive  Sara,"  not  long  after  their  marriage  :— 

"  Meek  daughter  in  the  fanuLy  of  Christ, 
WeU  hast  thou  said,  and  holily  dispraised 
These  shapings  of  the  unregenerate  mind, 
Bubbles  that  glitter  as  they  rise,  and  break 
On  vain  Philosophy's  aye-bubbling  spring," 


I 


COLERIDGE. 


35 


The  three  children  of  that  marriage  have  all  been,  or  are,  distinguished  in  the 
world  of  letters.  The  eldest  was  Hartley  Coleridge,  who  died  young,  but  not  until 
he  had  given  to  the  world  many  poems  that  place  his  name  among  the  poets  of  the 
century,  giving  him  rank,  indeed,  beside  his  great  father.  He  was  tenderly  beloved 
in  life  by  the  Laureate,  Robert  Southey,  who  alludes  to  him  in  "  The  Doctor,"  as 
his  "  wife's  nephew ;  "  and  by  William  Wordsworth,  who  had  depicted  him,  when  a 
child,  as  one  "whose  genius  from  afar  was  brought;"  and  who,  when  his  mortal 
remains  were  to  be  laid  in  Grasmere  Churchyard,  selected  the  place  for  his  burial 
close  to  his  own  allotted  resting-place,  saying,  "Hartley,  I  know,  would  like  to  lie 
near  me."  Sara,  the  only  daughter,  married  her  cousin,  H.  N.  Coleridge,  and  edited 
some  of  her  great  father's  works,  inheriting,  indeed,  much  of  his  genius.  Ample 
proof  of  this  is  given  in  her  notes  to  the  "  Biographia  Literaria,"  and  the  Introduc- 
tory Essay  to  the  "  Aids  to  Reflection."  Those  who  knew  her  describe  her  as  lovely 
in  person  and  in  mind.  Derwent  Coleridge,  the  youngest  of  his  children,  is  happily 
still  with  us,  in  healthy  vigour.  He  has  written  a  memoir,  and  edited  the  works,  of 
his  friend  Mackworth  Praed.  He  has  long  been  recognised  as  a  ripe  scholar,  and 
was  formerly  the  Principal  of  St.  Mark's  College,  Fulham  :  he  is  now  the  rector  of 
Hanwell.  His  name  is  associated  with  that  of  his  brother  as  his  biographer  and 
editor  of  his  writings ;  with  that  of  his  father  as  the  latest  editor  of  his  principal 
works.  He  has  also  published  works  on  his  own  account,  which  evince  his  merit  as 
a  divine  and  critic,  and,  above  all,  as  an  educationist.  Thus  the  name  of  Coleridge 
has  been  continued  in  honour  and  in  usefulness,  and  no  doubt  it  will  be  so  to  another 
generation  ;  for  not  long  ago,  a  grandson,  Herbert  Coleridge,  achieved  eminence,  and 
was  called  away  ;  and  there  are  others  who  are  bearing  it  with  distinction.  Genius 
is  sometimes,  though  not  often,  hereditary. 

To  the  list  is  to  be  added  the  nephew  of  the  poet,  the  late  Judge  Coleridge,  and 
the  even  more  highly-honoured  name  of  his  son,  the  present  Chief  Justice  Coleridge, 
who  represented  in  Parliament  the  city  of  Exeter,  and  who  obtained  high  renown 
as  one  of  the  soundest  lawyers  and  most  eloquent  of  the  men  of  the  House  of 
Commons. 

The  cottage  at  Clevedon,  near  Bristol,  in  which  the  young  couple  went  to  reside, 
heedless  of  all  the  requirements  of  life,  and  with  literally  nothing  "  to  begin  life  "  * 
upon,  is  still  standing,  and  is  one  of  the  "  lions  "  of  the  place.  The  village  was  then 
essentially  rural ;  it  is  now.  a  fashionable  watering-place.  The  cottage,  whish  the 
poet  thus  describes — 

"  Low  was  our  pretty  cot— our  tallest  rose 
Peeped  at  the  chamber  window ; 
'     '  ....    In  the  open  air 

Our  myrtles  blossomed,  and  across  the  porch 
Thick  jasmines  twined" — 

is  now  common-place  enough.     "The  white-flowered  jasmine"  and  the  "  broad- 

*  He  seems  to  have  faced  and  dared  matrimony  on  an  offer  made  him  by  the  Bristol  bookseller.    "  I  told  him, 
says  Cottle,  "  I  would  give  him  one  guinea  and  a  half  for  every  hundred  lines  he  would  give  to  me,  whether  rhyme 
or  blank  verse."    That,  in  the  estimation  of  the  sanguine  poet,  was  a  certain  income ;  for  when  a  practical  friend, 
with  an  eye  i-ather  to  market  prices  than  the  Muses,  asked  him,  "  How  was  he  to  keep  the  pot  boiling  ? "  he  answered, 
"Mr.  Qottte  had  made  him  such  an  offer  that  he  felt  no  solicitude  on  that  head." 

D    2 


3^ 


MEMORIES. 


I 


leaved  myrtle"  ("  meet  emblems  they  of  innocence  and  love")  no  longer  blossom 
there  ;  but  the  place  has  a  memory ;  for  there,  out  of  "  thick-coming  fancies,"  were 
planned  and  penned  some  of  the  sweetest  and  grandest  poems  in  our  language — 
poems  that  have  given  joy  to  milHons,  and  will  continue  to  delight  as  long  as  that 
language  is  spoken  or  read.  It  is  now  called  "Coleridge  Cottage,"  and  is  depicted  in 
the  accompanying  woodcut.  The  Bristolians  love  the  place  for  its  fresh  sea-breezes 
and  airs  redolent  of  health  that  come  from  heath-covered  downs.  Will  no  generous 
hand  restore  as  well  as  preserve  it,  that  thither  the  young  and  hopeful  and  trustful 
may  make  pilgrimage,  that  there  the  aged  may  think  calmly  over  a  troubled  past, 

"  And  tranquil  muse  upon  tranquillity ! " 


COLERIDGE  COTTAGE  AT  CLEVEDON. 


Subsequently  he  removed  to  a  cottage  at  AUfoxden.  The  rent  of  the  cottage  was 
but  seven  pounds  a  year.  William  Howitt  describes  it  as  a  poor  place;  but  the 
nightingales  sing  there  yet,  and  traces  of  past  pleasantness  may  be  noted;  the 
orchard  trees,  and  the  "  Kme-tree  bower,"  in  which  the  poet  thought  and  wrote, 
flourish  there  still. 

In  1816  the  wandering  and  unsettled  ways  of  the  poet  were  calmed  and 
harmonised  in  the  home  of  the  Gillmans  at  Highgate,  where  the  remainder  of  bis 
days— nearly  twenty  years — were  passed  in  entire  quiet  and  comparative  happiness. 
Mr.  Gillman  was  a  surgeon,  and  it  is  understood  that  Coleridge  went  to  reside  with 


COLERIDGE. 


37 


him  chiefly  to  be  under  his  surveillance,  to  break  himself  of  the  fearful  habit  he  had 
contracted  of  eating  opium ;  a  habit  that  grievously  impaired  his  mind,  engendered 
terrible  self-reproach,  and  embittered  the  best  years  of  his  life.*  He  was  the  guest 
and  the  beloved  friend,  as  well  as  the  patient,  of  Mr.  Gillman,  whose  devoted  attach- 
ment, with  that  of  his  estimable  wife,  supplied  the  calm  contentment  and  seraphic 
peace — such  as  might  have  been  the  dream  of  the  poet  and  the  hope  of  the  man. 
Honoured  be  the  name,  and  reverenced  the  memory,  of  this  "general  practitioner," 
this  true  friend !  It  is  recorded  of  Fulke  Greville,  the  counsellor  of  kings,  that  he 
ordered  it  to  be  placed  on  his  monument,  as  his  proudest  boast,  that  he  was 

"  The  Mend  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney." 


.  i   —     ■-  -       "   -   J         '      ' 


THE   HOUSE   01"   THE    GILLMANS   AT   HIGHGATE, 

It  is  a  loftier  title  to  the  gratitude  of  posterity,  that  which  James  Gillman  claims 
when  his  tombstone  records  the  fact  that  he  was 

"  The  Mend  of  S.  T.  Coleridge," 

carving  also  on  the  stone  two  of  his  dear  friend's  lines — 

"  Mercv  for  praise,  to  be  forgiven  for  fame, 
He  asked,  and  hoped  through  Chi'ist— do  thou  the  same. 


*  De  Quincey  more  than  insinuates  that  instead  of  GiUman  persuading  Coleridge  to  relinquish  opium,  Coleridge 
seduced  GiUman  into  taking  it. 


38  MEMORIES. 


Gillman  died  on  the  1st  of  June,  1837,  having  arranged  to  publish  a  Life  of 
Coleridge,  of  which  he  produced  but  the  first  volume.* 

Coleridge's  habit  of  taking  opium  was  no  secret.  In  1816  it  had  already  reached 
a  fearful  pitch.  It  had  produced  "  during  many  years  an  accumulation  of  bodily 
suffering  that  wasted  the  frame,  poisoned  the  sources  of  enjoyment,  and  entailed  an 
intolerable  mental  load  that  scarcely  knew  cessation  ;  "  the  poet  himself  called  it 
"  the  accursed  drug."  In  1814  Cottle  wrote  him  a  strong  protest  against  this 
terrible  and  ruinous  habit,  entreating  him  to  renounce  it.  Coleridge  said  in  reply, 
"  You  have  poured  oil  into  the  raw  and  festering  wound  of  an  old  friend,  Cottle, 
but  it  is  oil  of  vitriol."  He  accounts  for  the  "  accursed  habit  "  by  stating  that  he 
had  taken  it  first  to  obtain  relief  from  intense  bodily  suffering,  and  he  seriously 
contemplated  entering  a  private  insane  asylum  as  the  surest  means  of  its  removal. 
His  remorse  was  terrible  and  perpetual ;  he  was  "  rolling  rudderless,"  "  the  wreck 
of  what  he  once  was,"  "  helpless  and  hopeless."  He  revealed  this  "  dominion  "  to 
De  Quincey  "  with  a  deep  expression  of  horror  at  the  hideous  bondage."  It  was 
this  "  conspiracy  of  himself  against  himself"  that  poisoned  his  life.  He  describes 
it  with  frantic  pathos  as  "the  scourge,  the  curse,  the  one  almighty  blight,  that  had 
desolated  his  life  ;  "  the  thief, 

"To  steal 
From  my  own  nature  all  the  natural  man." 

The  habit  was,  it  would  seem,  commenced  in  1802  ;  and  if  Mr.  Cottle  is  to  be 
credited,  in  1814  he  had  been  long  accustomed  to  take  "from  two  quarts  of 
laudanum  in  a  week  to  a  pint  a  day."  He  did,  it  is  said,  ultimately  conquer  it: 
"  there  is  more  joy  in  heaven  over  one  that  repenteth,  than  over  the  ninety  and 
nine  who  need  no  repentance." 

It  was  during  his  residence  with  the  Gillmans  that  I  knew  Coleridge.  He  had 
arranged  to  write  for  the  AmiiJet,  and  circumstances  warranted  my  often  seeing  him 
— a  privilege  of  which  I  gladly  availed  myself.  In  this  home  at  Highgate,  where  all 
even  of  his  whims  were  studied  Avith  affectionate  and  attentive  care,  he  preferred  the 
quiet  of  home  influences  to  the  excitements  of  society  ;  and  although  I  more  than 
once  met  there  his  friend,  Charles  Lamb,  and  other  noteworthy  men  of  whom  I 
shall  have  to  say  something,  I  usually  found  him,  to  my  delight,  alone.  There  he 
cultivated  flowers,  fed  his  pensioners,  the  birds,  and  wooed  the  little  children^who 
gamboled  on  the  heath  where  he  took  his  walks  daily. f  I  have  seen  him  often — as 
Thomas  Carlyle  (honoured  and  loved  among  his  many  friends)  saw  him  often—"  on 
the  brow  of  Highgate  Hill,  looking  down  on  London  and  its  smoke-tumult  like  a 
sage  escaped  from  the  inanity  of  life's  battle,  attracting  towards  him  the  thoughts  of 

*  Gillman  published  but  one  volume  of  a  life  of  Coleridge.  The  copy  he  gave  me  contains  his  con-ections  for 
another  edition.  De  Guincey  says  of  it  that  "  it  is  a  thing  deader  than  a  door-nail,  which  is  waiting  vainly,  and  for 
thousands  of  years  is  doomed  to  wait,  for  its  sister  volume,  namely,  Volume  Second."  It  must  be  ever  regretted, 
that  of  the  poet's  later  life,  of  which  he  knew  so  much,  he  wrote  nothing;  but  the  world  was  justified  in  expecting, 
even  in  the  details  of  his  earlier  pilgrimage,  sometning  which  it  did  not  get. 

t  "  His  room  looked  upon  a  delicious  prospect  of  wood  and  meadow,  with  coloured  gardens  under  the  window, 
like  an  embroidery  to  the  mantle.  Here  he  cultivated  his  flowers,  and  had  a  set  of  birds  for  his  pensioners,  who  came 
to  breakfast  with  him.  He  might  have  been  seen  taking  his  daily  stroU  up  and  down,  with  his  black  coat  and  white 
locks,  and  a  book  in  his  hand,  and  was  a  great  acquaintance  of  the  little  childi'en."— Leigh  Huht. 


I 


COLERIDGE. 


39 


innumerable  brave  bearts  still  engaged  there."*  It  is  a  beautiful  view,  such  as  can 
be  rarely  seen  out  of  England,  that  w^hich  the  poet  had  from  the  -window  of  his 
bed-chamber.  Underneath,  a  valley,  rich  in  "  patrician  trees,"  divides  the  hill  of 
Highgate  from  that  of  Hampstead.  The  tower  of  the  old  church  at  Hampstead 
rises   above  a  thick  wood — a  dense  forest  it  seems — although  here  and  there  a 


"■^HiECHAMBKB   OF    SAMUEL   TAYLOB   COLEBIDGE. 


graceful  villa  stands  out  from  among  the  dar^  green  drapery  that  enfolds  it.     It  is 
easy  to  imagine  the  poet  often  contrasting  this  home-scene  with  that  of  "  Brocken's 


•  "  Toleride'e  sat  on  the  brow  of  Hie-hgate  HiU,  in  those  years,  looking  down  on  London  and  its  smoke-tumult 
like  a  sage  eSdfrZ  the  inanity  of  Ufe's  battle,  attracting  towards  him  tLe  thoughts  of  innumerable  brave  souls 
stiU  enefLdKms  express  contributions  to  poetry,  philosophy,  or  any  specifio  provmce  of  human  hterature 
?;^exS|hTenment  had^'blen'S  Ind  sadly  interm^itte/tfbut  he  had  -P-ially  among  Y^-ng  mquirmg  men,  a 
his-her  than  literarv  a  kind  of  prophetic,  character.    He  was  thought  to  hold,  he  alone  m  Jingiana,  tne  J^<^y  oi 

'  God,  freedom,  immortality,'  still  his  :  a  king  of  men! "— Caelyle. 


40  MEMORIES. 


sov'ran  height,"  where  no  "  finei'  influence  of  friend  or  child"  had  greeted  him,  and 
exclaiming — 

"  O  thou  queen  ! 
Thou  delegated  Deity  of  earth, 
O  dear,  dear  England ! " 

And  what  a  wonderful  change  there  is  in  the  scene  when  the  pilgrim  to  the  shrine 
at  Highgate  leaves  the  garden,  and  walks  a  few  steps  beyond  the  elm  avenue  that 
still  fronts  the  house  !     Here  he  looks  over  London,  "  the  mighty  heart  "  of  a  great 


free  country 


'  Earth  hath  not  anything  to  show  more  fair  ; 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul,  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty." 


Fifty  years  have  brought  houses  all  about  the  place,  and  shut  in  the  prospect ; 
yet  from  any  ascent  you  may  see  regal  Windsor  on  one  side,  and  Gravesend  on  the 
other — twenty  miles  of  view,  look  which  way  you  will.  But  when  the  poet  dwelt 
there,  all  London  was  within  ken  a  few  yards  from  his  door.  The  house  has 
undergone  some  changes  ;  still  the  garden  is  much  as  it  was  when  I  used  to  find 
the  poet  feeding  his  birds  there.  It  has  the  same  wall — moss-covered  now — that 
overhangs  the  dell ;  a  shady  tree-walk  shelters  it  from  sun  and  rain  ;  it  was  the 
poet's  walk  at  mid-day.  A  venerable  climber — the  glycenas — was  no  doubt  planted 
by  the  poet's  hand ;  it  was  new  to  England  when  he  was  old,  and  what  more  likely 
than  that  his  friends,  the  Gillmans,  would  -have  bidden  him  plant  it  where  it  has 
since  flourished  fifty  years  or  more  ?  Many  who  visit  it  will  say,  in  the  words  of 
Charles  Lamb,  his  "  fifty  years  old  friend,  without  a  dissension,"—"  What  was  his 
house  is  consecrated  to  me  a  chapel." 

I  was  fortunate  in  sharing  some  of  the  regard  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grillman.  After 
the  poet's  death,  they  gave  me  his  inkstand  (a  plain  inkstand  of  wood,*  which  is 
before  me  as  I  write,  and  a  myrtle  on  which  his  eyes  were  fixed  as  he  died  :  it  is 
now  an  aged  and  gnarled  tree,  and  was  long  honoured  in  our  conservatory.  As  we 
have  now  no  sufficiently  large  conservatory,  a  friend  more  fortunate  has  the  charge 
of  this  treasure.! 

*  Since  this  was  written,  I  have  had  the  privilege,  the  honour,  and  the  happiness,  to  present  this  inkstand  to  the 
poet  Longfellow. 

+  Mrs.  Gillman  gave  me  also  the  following  sonnet.  I  believe  it  never  to  have  been  published  ;  but,  although 
she  requested  I  "  would  not  have  copies  of  it  made  to  give  away,"  I  presume  the  prohibition  cannot  now  be  binding, 
after  a  lapse  of  forty  years  since  I  received  it.  The  poet,  he  who  wrote  the  sonnet,  and  the  admirable  woman  to 
whom  it  was  addressed,  have  long  since  met. 

"  Sonnet  on  the  late  Samuel  Taylor  Coleeidgb. 

"  And  thou  art  gone,  most  loved,  most  honour'd  friend  ! 
No,  never  more  thy  gentle  voice  shall  blend 
With  air  of  earth,  its  pure,  ideal  tones, 
Binding  in  one,  as  with  harmonious  zones. 
The  heart  and  intellect.    And  I  no  more 
Shall  with  thee  gaze  on  that  unfathom'd  deep,    ' 
The  human  soul,  as  when,  push'd  off  the  shore, 
Thy  mystic  bark  would  through  the  darkness  sweep, 
Itself  the  while  so  bright !    For  oft  we  seem'd 
As  on  some  starless  sea — all  dark  above. 
All  dark  below ;  yet,  onward  as  we  drove, 
To  plough  up  light  that  ever  round  us  stream'd. 
But  he  who  mourns  is  not  as  one  bereft 
Of  all  he  loved  :  thy  living  Truths  are  left." 

"Washington  Allston. 
"  Cambridge  Port,  Massachusetts,  America, 

"For  my  still  dear  Mend,  Mrs.  Gillman,  of  the  Grove,  Highgate." 


COLERIDGE.  41 


One  of  the  very  few  letters  of  Coleridge  I  have  preserved  I  transcribe,  as  it 
illustrates  his  goodness  of  heart  and  willingness  to  put  himself  to  inconvenience  for 
others : — 

"Deak,  Sir,"  it  runs,  "I  received  some  five  days  ago  a  letter  depicting  the  distress  and 
urgent  want  of  a  widow  and  a  sister,  with  whom,  during  the  husband's  lifetime,  I  was  for  two  or 
three  years  a  house-mate,  and  yesterday  the  poor  lady  came  up  herself,  almost  clamorously 
soliciting  me,  not  indeed  to  assist  her  from  my  own  purse — for  she  was  previously  assured  that 
there  was  nothing  therein— but  to  exert  myself  to  collect  the  sum  of  £20,  which  would  save  her 
from  God  knows  what.  On  this  hopeless  task — for  perhaps  never  man  whose  name  had  been  so 
often  in  print  for  praise  or  reprobation  had  so  few  intimates  as  myself — I  recollected  that  before  I 
left  Highgate  for  the  sea-side,  you  had  been  so  kind  as  to  intimate  that  you  considered  some  trifle 
due  to  me.  "Whatever  it  be,  it  will  go  some  way  to  eke  out  the  sum,  vphich  I  have  with  a  sick 
heart  been  all  this  day  trotting  about  to  make  up,  guinea  by  guinea.  You  will  do  me  a  real 
service  (for  my  health  perceptibly  sinks  under  this  unaccustomed  flurry  of  my  spirits)  if  you  could 
make  it  convenient  to  enclose  to  me,  however  small  the  sum  may  be,  if  it  amount  to  a  bank  note 
of  any  denomination,  directed  '  Grove,  Highgate,'  where  I  am,  and  expect  to  be  any  time  for  the 
next  eight  months.     In  the  meantime,  believe  me, 

"  Your  obliged, 

"  S.  T.  Coleridge. 

"  \th  December,  1828." 

I  find  also,  at  the  back  of  one  of  his  manuscripts,  the  following  poem,  which  I 
believe  to  be  unpublished.     I  cannot  discover  it  in  any  edition  of  his  works. 

"LOVE'S  BURIAL-PLACE. 
"A  Madeigal. 

"  Lady. — If  Love  be  dead — 

Pout. —  And  I  aver  it. 

iatZz/.— TeU  me,  Bard,  where  Love  lies  buried. 

Poei.— Love  lies  buried  where  'twas  born. 
O  gentle  dame,  think  it  no  scorn. 
If  in  my  fancy  I  presume 
To  call  thy  bosom  poor  Love's  tomb, 
And  on  that  tomb  to  read  the  Hue  — 
'  Here  lies  a  Love  that  once  seemed  mine, 
But  caught  a  chill,  as  I  divine, 
And  died  at  length  of  a  decline  ! '" 

I  have  engraved  a  copy  of  his  autograph  lines,  as  he  wrote  them  in  Mrs.  Hall's 
Album  ;  they  will  be  found  too,  as  a  note,  in  the  "  Biographia  Literaria  :  " — 

"  On  the  Portrait  of  the  Butterfly,  on  the  2nd  Leaf  of  this  Album. 
"  The  Butterfly  the  ancient  Grecians  made 
The  soul's  fail-  emblem,  and  its  only  name  ; 
But  of  the  soul  escaped  the  slavish  trade 
Of  earthly  life  !     For  in  this  mortal  frame 
Ours  is  the  reptile's  lot,  much  toil,  much  blame. 
Manifold  motions  making  little  speed, 
And  to  deform  and  kill  the  thiags  whereon  we  feed ! " 

"  S.  T.  Coleridge. 

"30«A^pni,  1830." 

All  who  had  the  honour  of  the  poet's  friendship  or  acquaintance  speak  of  the 
marvellous  gift  which  gave  to  this  illustrious  man  almost  a  character  of  inspiration. 
Montgomery  describes  the  poetry  of  Coleridge  as  like  electricity,  "flashing  at 
rapid  intervals  with  the  utmost  intensity  of  effect,"  and  contrasts  it  with  that  of 
Wordswdrth,  like  galvanism,  "  not  less  powerful,  but  rather  continuous  than  sudden 
in  its  wonderful  influences."  Wilson,  in  the  "  Noctes,"  writes  thus  :  "Wind  him 
up,  and  away  he  goes,  discoursing  most  eloquent  music,  without  a  discord,  full, 
ample,  inexhaustible,   serious,  and   divine  ;  "  and  in  another  place,   "  He  becomes 


42  MEMORIES. 


inspired  by  his  own  silver  voice,  and  pours  out  wisdom  like  a  sea."  Wordsworth 
speaks  of  him  "  as  quite  an  epicure  in  sound."  The  liveliest  and  truest  image  he 
could  give  of  Coleridge's  talk  was  that  of  "  a  majestic  river,  the  sound  or  sight  of 
whose  course  you  caught  at  intervals,  which  was  sometimes  concealed  by  forests, 
sometimes  lost  in  sand,  then  came  flashing  out,  broad  and  distinct,  then  again  took 
a  turn  which  your  eye  could  not  follow,  yet  you  knew  and  felt  that  it  was  the 
same  river."  The  painter  Hay  don  makes  note  of  his  "  lazy  luxury  of  poetical 
outpouring;  "  and  Rogers  {"  Table  Talk  ")  is  reported  to  have  said,  "  One  morning, 
breakfasting  with  me,  he  talked  for  three  hours  without  intermission,  so  admirably, 
that  I  wished  every  word  he  uttered  had  been  written  down  ;  "  but  he  does  not  quote 
a  single  sentence  of  all  the  poet  said.*  And  a  writer  in  the  Quarterly  Revieiv 
expresses  his  belief  that  "  nothing  is  too  high  for  the  grasp  of  his  conversation, 
nothing  too  low  ;  it  glanced  from  earth  to  heaven,  from  heaven  to  earth,  with  a 
speed  and  a  splendour,  an  ease  and  a  power,  that  almost  seemed  inspired."  De 
Quincey  said  that  he  had  "  the  lai'gest  and  most  spacious  intellect,  the  subtlest  and 
the  most  comprehensive,  that  has  yet  existed  amongst  men."  Of  Coleridge,  Shelley 
writes  : — 

"  All  things  he  seemed  to  understand, 
Of  old  or  new,  at  sea  or  land, 
Save  his  own  soul,  which  was  a  mist." 

The  wonderful  eloquence  of  his  conversation  can  be  comprehended  only  by 
those  Avho  have  heard  him  speak — "  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out ; "  it  was 
sparkling  at  times,  and  at  times  profound  ;  but  the  melody  of  his  voice,  the  impres- 
sive solemnity  of  his  manner,  the  radiant  glories  of  his  intellectual  countenance, 
bore  off,  as  it  were,  the  thoughts  of  the  listener  from  his  discourse,  who  rarely 
carried  away  any  of  the  gems  that  fell  from  the  poet's  lips. 

I  have  listened  to  him  more  than  once  for  above  an  hour,  of  course  without 
putting  in  a  single  word  ;  I  would  as  soon  have  attempted  a  song  while  a  nightingale 
was  singing.  There  was  rarely  much  change  of  countenance  ;  his  face,  when  I 
knew  him,  was  overladen  with  flesh,  and  its  expression  impaired  ;  yet  to  me  it  was 
so  tender,  and  gentle,  and  gracious,  and  loving,  that  I  could  have  knelt  at  the  old 
man's  feet  almost  in  adoration.  My  own  hair  is  white  now  ;  yet  I  have  much  the 
same  feeling  as  I  had  then,  whenever  the  form  of  the  venerable  man  rises  in  memory 
before  me.  Yet  I  cannot  recall — and  I  believe  could  not  recall  at  the  time,  so  as  to 
preserve  as  a  cherished  thing  in  my  remembrance — a  single  sentence  of  the  many 
sentences  I  heard  him  utter.  In  his  "  Table  Talk  "  there  is  a  world  of  wisdom,  but 
that  is  only  a  collection  of  scraps,  chance-gathered.  If  any  left  his  presence 
unsatisfied,  it  resulted  rather  from  the  superabundance  than  the  paucity  of  the 
feast,  f     And  probably  there  has  never  been  an  author  who  was  less  of  an  egotist: 

*  Madame  de  Stael  said  that  Coleridge  was  "  rich  in  a  monologue,  but  poor  in  a  dialogue  ;  "  and  HazUtt  said 
sneeringly,  "Excellent  talker,  very— if  you  would  let  him  start  from  no  premises,  and  come  to  no  conclusion." 

t  It  may  not  be  forgotten  that  the  Rev.  Edward  Irving,  in  dedicating  to  Coleridge  one  of  his  books,  acknow- 
ledges his  obligations  to  the  venerable  sage  for  many  valuable  teachings,  "  as  a  spiritual  man  and  as  a  Christian 
pastor,"  lessons  derived  from  his  "conversations  "  concerning  the  revelations  of  the  Christian  faith— "helps  in  the 
way  of  truth  "—from  listening  to  his  discources.  Charles  Lamb  thus  writes  :  "  He  would  talk  from  morn  to  dewy 
eve,  nor  cease  till  fer  midnight,  yet  who  would  interrupt  him,  who  would  obstruct  that  continuous  flow  of  con- 
verse fetched  from  Hebron  or  Zion?"  Coleridge  has  said,  "he  never  found  the  smallest  hitch  or  impediment 
in  the  fullest  utterance  of  his  most  subtle  fancies  by  word  of  mouth." 


COLERIDGE.  43 

it  was  never  of  himself  he  talked ;  he  was  always  under  the  influence  of  that  divine 
precept,  "  It  is  more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive." 

I  can  recall  many  evening  rambles  with  him  over  the  high  lands  that  look  down 
on  London ;  but  the  memory  I  cherish  most  is  linked  with  a  crowded  street,  where 
the  clumsy  and  the  coarse  jostled  the  old  man  eloquent,  as  if  he  had  been  earthy,  of 
the  earth.  It  was  in  the  Strand  :  he  pointed  out  to  me  the  window  of  a  room  in  the 
office  of  the  Morning  Post  where  he  had  consumed  much  midnight  oil ;  and  then  for 
half  an  hour  he  talked  of  the  sorrowful  joy  he  had  often  felt  when,  leaving  the  office 
as  day  was  dawning,  he  heard  the  song  of  a  caged  lark  that  sung  his  orisons  from 
the  lattice  of  an  artisan  who  was  rising  to  begin  his  labour  as  the  poet  was  pacing 
homewards  to  rest  after  his  work  all  night.  Thirty  years  had  passed,  but  that 
unforgotten  melody — that  dear  bird's  song — gave  him  then  as  much  true  pleasure  as 
when,  to  his  wearied  head  and  heart,  it  was  the  matin  hymn  of  nature. 

I  remember  once  meeting  him  in  Paternoster  Row  ;  he  was  inquiring  his  way  to 
Bread  Street,  Cheapside,  and,  of  course,  I  endeavoured  to  explain  to  him  that  if  he 
walked  on  for  about  two  hundred  yards,  and  took  the  fourth  turning  to  the  right,  it 
would  be  the  street  he  wanted.  I  noted  his  expression,  so  vague  and  unenlightened, 
that  I  could  not  help  expressing  my  surprise  as  I  looked  earnestly  at  his  forehead, 
and  saw  the  organ  of  "  locality"  unusually  prominent  above  the  eyebroAvs.  He  took 
my  meaning,  laughed,  and  said,  "  I  see  what  you  are  looking  at :  why,  at  school  my 
head  was  beaten  into  a  mass  of  bumps,  because  I  could  not  point  out  Paris  in  a  map 
of  France."  It  has  been  said  that  Spurzheim  pronounced  him  to  be  a  mathematician, 
and  affirmed  that  he  could  not  be  a  poet.  Such  opinion  the  great  phrenologist  could 
not  have  expressed,  for  undoubtedly  he  had  a  large  organ  of  ideality,  although  at 
first  it  was  not  perceptible,  in  consequence  of  the  great  breadth  and  height  of  his 
profound  forehead. 

Whenever.it  was  my  privilege  to  be  admitted  to  the  evening  meetings  at  High- 
gate,  I  met  some  of  the  men  who  were  then  famous,  and  have  since  become  parts  of 
the  literature  of  England,  among  whom  sat  Coleridge  talking,  and  looking  "  all  sweet 
and  simple  and  divine  things,  the  very  personification  of  meekness  and  humihty," 
though  fully  aware  that  he  was  the  centre  of  an  intellectual  circle.  Indeed,  to  his 
utter  unselfishness  witness  is  tendered  by  all  who  have  ever  written  concerning  him : 
he  seemed  striving  to  think  how  much  he  could  give  to,  and  never  what  he  might 
get  from,  those  with  whom  he  came  in  contact.  Even  his  engrossing  conversation  is 
evidence  of  this ;  and  there  is  abundant  proof  that  he  ever  sought  to  make  the  best 
of  the  works  of  others,  though  very  rarely  referring  to  his  own. 

I  attended  one  of  his  lectures  at  the  Royal  Institution,  and  I  strive  to  recall  him 
as  he  stood  before  his  audience  there.  There  was  but  little  animation  ;  his  theme 
did  not  seem  to  stir  him  into  life ;  the  ordinary  repose  of  his  countenance  was 
rarely  broken  up  ;  he  used  little  or  no  action  ;  and  his  voice,  though  mellifluous, 
was  monotonous.  He  lacked,  indeed,  that  earnestness  without  which  no  man  is 
truly  eloquent. 

At  the  time  I  speak  of  he  was  growing  corpulent  and  heavy ;  being  seldom  free 
from  pain,  he  moved  apparently  with  difficulty,  yet  liked  to  walk,  with  shuffling  gait, 


up  and  down  and  about  the  room  as  he  talked,  pausing  now  and  then  as  if  oppressed 
by  suffering. 

I  need  not  say  that  I  was  a  silent  listener  during  the  evenings  to  which  I  refer, 
when  there  were  present  some  of  those  who  "  teach  us  from  their  urns  ;  "  but  I  was 
free  to  gaze  on  the  venerable  man — one  of  the  humblest,  and  one  of  the  most  fervid, 
perhaps,  of  the  worshippers  by  whom  he  was  surrounded,  and  to  treasure  in  memory 
the  poet's  gracious  and  loving  looks^the  "thick  waving  silver  hair" — the  still,  clear 
blue  eye  ;  and  on  such  occasions  I  used  to  leave  him  as  if  I  were  in  a  waking  dream,^ 
ti'ying  to  recall,  here  and  there,  a  sentence  of  the  many  weighty  and  mellifluous 
sentences  I  had  heard — seldom  with  success — and  feeling  at  the  moment  as  if  I  had 
been  surfeited  with  honey. 

May  I  not  now  lament  that  I  did  not  foresee  a  time  when  I  might  be  called 
upon  to  write  concerning  this  good  and  great  and  most  lovable  man  ?  How  much 
I  might  have  enriched  these  pages — now  but  weak  records  of  the  impressions  I 
received ! 

Many  famous  men  have  described  the  personal  appearance  of  the  poet.  The  best 
portrait  of  him  is,  I  think,  from  the  pen  of  Wordsworth  : — 

"A  noticeable  man,  with  large,  grey  eyes, 
And  a  pale  face,  that  seemed,  -undoubtedly, 
As  if  a  blooming  face  it  ought  to  be  ; 
Heavy  his  low-hung  lip  did  oft  appear, 
Depress'd  by  weight  of  moving  phantasy ; 
Profound  his  forehead  was,  though  not  severe." 

Wordsworth  also  speaks  of  him  as  "  the  brooding  poet  with  the  heavenly  eyes," 
and  as  "  often  too  much  in  love  with  his  own  dejection."  That  the  one  loved  the 
other  dearly  is  certain  :  they  were  more  than  mere  words  those  that  Wordsworth 
addressed  to  Coleridge  : — 

"  O  friend !  O  poet !  brother  of  my  soul !  " 

But  the  earliest  word-portrait  we  have  of  him  was  drawn  by  Wordsworth's  sister 
in  1797  : — "  At  first  I  thought  him  very  plain  ;  that  is,  for  about  three  minutes.  He 
is  pale,  thin,  has  a  wide  mouth,  thick  lips,  longish,  loose-growing,  half-curling,  rough 
black  hair.  His  eye  is  large  and  full,  and  not  dark,  but  grey,  such  an  eye  as  would 
receive  from  a  heavy  soul  the  dullest  expression ;  but  it  speaks  every  emotion  of  his 
animated  mind.  He  has  fine  dark  eyebrows,  and  an  overhanging  forehead."  This 
is  De  Quincey's  sketch  of  him  in  1807 : — "  In  height  he  seemed  about  five  feet  eight 
inches  ;  in  reality  he  was  an  inch  and  a  half  taller.*  His  person  was  broad  and  full, 
and  tended  even  to  corpulence  ;  his  complexion  was  fair,  though  not  what  painters 
technically  call  fair,  because  it  was  associated  with  black  hair  ;  his  eyes  were  soft 
and  large  in  their  expression,  and  it  was  by  a  peculiar  appearance  of  haze  or  dimness 
which  mixed  with  their  light."  "A  lady  of  Bristol,"  writes  De  Quincey,  "  assured 
me  she  had  not  seen  a  young  man  so  engaging  in  his  exterior  as  Coleridge  when 
young,  in  1796.     He  had  then  a  blooming  and  healthy  complexion,  beautiful  and 

*  De  Q,uincey  elsewhere  states  his  height  to  be  five  feet  ten  inches— exactly  the  height  of  Wordsworth— both 
having  been  measured  in  the  studio  of  the  painter  Haydon. 


COLERIDGE.  45 


luxuriant  hair  falling  in  natural  curls  over  his  shoulders."  Lockhart  says,  "Cole- 
ridge has  a  grand  head ;  nothing  can  surpass  the  depth  of  meaning  in  his  eyes,  and 
the  unutterable  dreamy  luxury  of  his  lips."  Hazlitt  describes  him  in  early  manhood 
as  "  with  a  complexion  clear,  and  even  light,  a  forehead  broad  and  high,  as  if  built 
of  ivory,  with  large  projecting  eyebrows,  and  his  eyes  rolling  beneath  them  like  a 
sea  with  darkened  lustre.  His  mouth  was  rather  open,  his  chin  good-humoured  and 
round,  and  his  nose  small.  His  hair,  black  and  glossy  as  the  raven's  wing,  fell  in 
smooth  masses  over  his  forehead — long,  liberal  hair,  peculiar  to  enthusiasts." 

"  A  certain  tender  bloom  his  face  o'erspread." 

Sir  Humphry  Davy,  writing  of  him  in  1808,  says,  "  His  mind  is  a  wilderness,  in 
which  the  cedar  and  the  oak,  which  might  aspire  to  the  skies,  are  stunted  in  their 
growth  by  underwood,  thorns,  briers,  and  parasitical  plants  :  with  the  most  exalted 
genius,  enlarged  views,  sensitive  heart,  and  enlightened  mind,  he  will  be  the  victim 
of  want  of  order,  precision,  and  regularity."  And  Leigh  Hunt  speaks  of  his  open, 
indolent,  good-natured  mouth,  and  of  his  forehead  as  "  prodigious — a  great  piece  of 
placid  marble,"     Wordsworth  again — 

"  Noisy  lie  was,  and  gamesome  as  a  boy, 
Tossing  his  limbs  about  him  in  delight." 

In  the  autumn  of  1833,  Emerson,  on  his  second  visit  to  England,  called  on 
Colerilge.  He  found  him,  "  to  appearance,  a  short,  thick  old  man,  with  bright  blue 
eyes  and  fine  clear  complexion."  The  poet,  however,  did  not  impress  the  American 
favourably,  and  the  hour's  talk  was  of  "  no  use,  beyond  the  gratification  of  curiosity." 
They  did"  not  assimilate  :  it  was  not  given  to  the  hard  and  cold  thinker  to  compre- 
hend the  nature  of  "the  brooding  poet  with  the  heavenly  eyes  ; "  and  assuredly 
Coleridge  could  have  had  but  small  sympathy  with  his  unsought-for,  and  perhaps 
unwelcome  guest.  A  more  minute,  and  certainly  a  more  true  picture  is  that  which 
Carlyle  formed  of  him,  in  words  some  years  later,  and  probably  not  long  before  his 
removal  from  earth  : — "  Brow  and  head  were  round,  and  of  massive  weight,  but  the 
face  was  flabby  and  irresolute.  The  deep  eyes,  of  a  light  hazel,  were  as  full  of 
sorrow  as  of  inspiration ;  confused  pain  looked  mildly  from  them,  as  in  a  kind  of 
mild  astonishment.  The  whole  figure  and  air,  good  and  amiable  otherwise,  might 
be  called  flabby  and  irresolute,  expressive  of  weakness  under  possibility  of  strength. 
He  hung  loosely  on  his  limbs,  with  knees  bent,  and  stooping  attitude :  in  walking  he 
rather  shuflfled  than  decisively  stepped  ;  and  a  lady  once  remarked,  he  never  could 
fix  which  side  of  the  garden-walk  would  suit  him  best,  but  continually  shifted  in 
corkscrew  fashion,  and  kept  trying  both.  A  heavy-laden,  high-aspiring,  and  surely 
much-sufi'ering  man.  His  voice,  naturally  soft  and  good,  had  contracted  itself  into 
a  plaintive  snuffle  and  sing-song  ;  he  spoke  as  if  preaching— you  would  have  said 
preaching  earnestly,  and  also  hopelessly,  the  weightiest  things."  About  the  same 
period  a  writer  in  the  Qaavterhj  Review  ^\x^  pictures  him  :— "  His  clerical-looking 
dress,  ihe  thick  waving  silver  hair,  the  youthful-coloured  cheek,  the  indefinable 
mouth  and  lips,  the  quick,  yet  steady  and  penetrating  greenish-grey  eye,  the  slow 
and    continuous    enunciation,  and  the  everlasting  music   of  his  tones."     Procter, 


46  MEMORIES. 


writing  of  him,  says  :— "  In  his  mature  age  he  had  a  full  round  face,  a  fine  broad 
forehead,  rather  thick  lips,  and  strange,  dreamy  eyes."  In  Lamb's  words,  "his 
white  hair  shrouded  a  capacious  brain." 

There  are  several  portraits  of  him.  The  best  is  that  which  was  painted  by  his 
friend  Alston,  the  American  artist,  at  Rome,  in  1806.  Wordsworth  speaks  of  it  as 
"  the  only  likeness  of  the  great  original  that  ever  gave  me  the  least  pleasure."*  The 
woodcut  at  the  head  of  this  notice  is  engraved  from  the  portrait  by  Northcote :  it 
strongly  recalls  him  to  my  remembrance. 

Although  in  youth  and  earlier  manhood  Coleridge  had  perpetually  been— 

"  Chasing  chance-starting  friendships," 

not  long  before  his  death  he  is  described  as  "  thankful  for  the  deep,  calm  peace  of 
mind  he  then  enjoyed— a  peace  such  as  he  had  never  before  experienced,  nor  scarcely 
hoped  for."  All  things  were  then  looked  at  by  him  through  an  atmosphere  by  which 
all  were  reconciled  and  harmonised. 

It  is  true  that  he  failed  to  perform  all  he  purposed  to  do  :  of  what  high  soul  can 
it  be  said  otherwise  ?  But  his  friend.  Justice  Talfourd,  who,  while  testifying  to  the 
benignity  of  his  nature,  describes  his  life  as  "one  splendid  and  sad  prospectus,"  does 
the  poet  and  philosopher  scant  justice.  What  he  might  have  done  was,  perhaps, 
hardly  known  to  himself,  and  could  but  be  guessed  at  by  others.  Whatever  the 
"promise"  may  have  been,  the  "performance"  was  prodigious.  To  quote  the 
words  of  his  nephew,  H,  N.  Coleridge,  "  he  did,  in  his  vocation,  the  day's  work  of  a 
giant."  The  American  edition  of  his  works,  which  is  not  quite  complete,  extends  to 
seven  closely-printed  volumes,  each  of  more  than  seven  hundred  pages  !  If  he  had 
done  nothing  but  "  talk,"  his  life  would  not  have  been  spent  idly  or  in  vain,  as  the 
"  Table-Talk  "  may  testify  ;  but  as  a  writer,  who  of  the  generation  has  done  more  ? 
If,  as  Hazlitt  writes,  in  the  later  years  of  his  life,  "  he  may  be  said  to  have  lived  on 
the  sound  of  his  own  voice  ;  "  and  if,  according  to  Wordsworth,  "  his  mental  power 
was  frozen  at  its  marvellous  source;"!  yet  what  a  world  of  wealth  he  has 
bequeathed  to  us,  although  the  whole  produce  of  his  pen,  in  poetry,  is  compressed 
within  one  single  small  volume !  All  must  lament  that  this  illustrious  man  whom 
De  Quincey  describes  as  "  the  largest  and  most  spacious  intellect,  the  subtlest  and 
the  most  comprehensive,  that  has  yet  existed  among  men,"  should  have  given  way 
to  the  evil  habit  which  made  life  miserable  to  him.  But  while  lamenting  what  we 
have  thereby  lost,  we  may  be  consoled  by  the  excellence  of  what  has  been  preserved. 

A  few  months  ago  I  again  drove  to  Highgate,  and  visited  the  house  in  which  the 
poet  passed  so  many  happy  years  of  calm  contentment  and  seraphic  peace  ;  again 
repeated  these  lines,  which,  next  to  his  higher  faith,  expressed  the  faith  by  which 
his  life  was  ruled  and  guided  : — 

' '  He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small, 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all!  "  t 

*  This  portrait  is  now  in  the  National  Portrait  Gallery.  ^^ 

+  Very  early  in  his  life  Lord  Egmont  said  of  him,  "  He  talks  very  much  like  an  angel,  and  does  nothing  at  all.' 
De  Quincey  speaks  of  his  indolence  as  "inconceivable ;  "  and  Joseph  Cottle  relates  some  amusing  instances  of  his 
forgetfulness  even  of  the  hour  at  which  he  had  arranged  to  deliver  a  lecture  to  an  assembled  audience. 

+  It  was  once  said  to  me,  by  a  common  "navvy,"  "I  wouldn't  give  much  for  a  man's  Christianity  .if  his  dog  was 
none  the  better  for  it." 


COLERIDGE. 


47 


His  mortal  remains  lie  in  a  vault  in  the  graveyard  of  the  old  church  at  Highgate. 
He  was  a  "  stranger "  in  the  parish  where  he  died,  notwithstanding  his  long 
residence  there,  and  was,  therefore,  interred  alone.  Not  long  afterwards,  however, 
the  vault  was  built  to  receive  the  body  of  his  wife.  There  the  two  rest  together. 
It  is  enclosed  by  a  thick  iron  -grating,  the  interior  lined  with  white  marble,  con- 
taining the  letters  marked  in  the  woodcut.     When  I  visited  the  tomb  in  1864,  one 


THE   GRAVE  or   CuLEEIDGE. 


of  the  marble  slabs  had  accidentally  given  way,  and  the  coffin  was  partially  exposed, 
I  laid  my  hand  upon  it  in  solemn  reverence,  and  gratefully  recalled  to  memory  him 
who,  in  bis  own  emphatic  words,  had 

"  Here  found  life  in  death." 

The  tablet  that  contains  the  epitaph  is  on  one  of  the  side-walls  of  the  new 
church.     It  was  consecrated  two  years  before  the  poet's  departure  ;  and  although  it 


48 


MEMORIES. 


shut  out  his  view  of  mighty  London,  it  was  pleasant  to  know  that  in  his  later  days 
he  had  often  looked  on  that  temple  of  God.  The  tablet  that  records  the  death  of 
Mr.  Gillman  (and  also  that  of  his  wife,  who  survived  him  many  years)  is  of  the 
same  size  and  form  as  that  of  the  friend  they  loved  so  dearly.* 

I  would  omit  only  the  word  "  perchance  "  when  I  quote  these  lines  from  the 
poet,  and  to  the  poet  apply  them — to  him  who  works  untrammelled  in  another 
sphere,  beloved  by  the  Master  he  served  in  this  : — 

"  Meek  at  the  throne  of  mercy  and  of  God, 
Perchance  thou  raisest  high  th'  enraptured  hymn, 
Amid  the  blaze  of  Seraphim !  " 

More  than  once  I  met,  with  Coleridge,  at  the  house  of  the  Gillmans,  and 
afterwards  at  other  places,  that  most  remarkable  man — "  martyr  and  saint,"  as 
Mrs.  Oliphant  styles  him — Edward  Irving.  He  and  Coleridge  were  singular  con- 
trasts— in  appearance,  that  is  to  say,  for  their  minds  and  souls  were  in  harmony. 


*  These  are  the  inscriptions  on  the  monument  to  both  Coleridge  and  his  fi-iend  GiUman  : — 

Sacred  to  the  Memory 

of 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE, 

Poet,  Philosopher,  Theologian. 

This  truly  great  and  good  man  resided  for 

The  last  nineteen  years  of  his  life 

In  this  hamlet. 

He  quitted  the  "body  of  this  death  " 

July  25th,  1834, 

In  the  sixty- second  year  of  his  age. 

Of  his  profound  learning  and  discursive  genius 

His  literary  works  are  an  imperishable  record. 

To  his  private  worth, 

His  social  and  Christian  virtues, 

James  and  Ann  Gillman, 

The  friends  with  whom,  he  lived 

During  the  above  period,  dedicate  this  tablet. 

Under  the  pressure  of  a  long 

And  most  painful  disease, 

His  disposition  was  unalterably  sweet  and  angelic. 

He  was  an  ever-enduring,  ever-loving  friend. 

The  gentlest  and  kindest  teacher. 

The  most  engaging  home  companion. 

"  O  framed  for  calmer  times  and  nobler  hearts ! 
O  studious  poet,  eloquent  for  truth  ! 
Philosopher,  conlemning  wealth  and  death, 
Yet  docile,  childlike,  full  of  life  and  love, 
Here,  on  thy  monumental  stone,  thy  friends  inscribe  thy  worth." 

Reader !  for  the  world  mourn, 

A  Light  has  passed  away  fi-om  the  earth ; 

But  for  this  pious  and  exalted  Christian 

Rejoice,  and  again  I  say  unto  you,  Rejoice! 

Ubi 

Thesaurus, 

Ibi 

Cor. 

S.  T.  C. 

Sacred  to  the  Memory 

JAMES  GILLMAN,  SURGEON, 
(The  friend  of  8.  T.  Coleridge,) 
For  many  years  an  eminent  practitioner  in  this  place.    He  died  at  Hamsgate,  where  his  remains  are  interred, 
on  the  1  st  of  June,  1839,  in  the  fifty-seventh  year  of  his  age. 

Whilst  on  earth  his  integrity  of  heart  and  generosity  of  character  gained  the  confidence  and  esl^eem  of  men. 
His  Christian  faith  has,  we  humbly  trust,  through  the  merit  of  the  Saviour,  obtained  the  promise  of  a  better 
inheritance. 

"  Mercy  for  praise — to  be  forgiven  for  Fame — 
He  asked,  and  hoped  through  Christ !     Do  thou  the  same," 
HiGHGATB,  13(7i  Kov.,  1842. 


EDWARD   IRVING.  49 


The  Scottish  minister  was  very  tall,  powerful  in  frame,  and  of  great  physical  vigour ; 
"  a  gaunt  and  gigantic  figure,"  his  long,  black,  *'  wavy  "  hair  hanging  partially  over 
his  shoulders.  His  features  were  large  and  strongly  marked  ;  but  the  expression 
was  grievously  marred,  like  that  of  Whitefield,  by  a  squint  that  abstracted  much 
from  his  "  apostolic  "  character,  and  must  have  operated  prejudicially  as  regarded 
his  mission.  His  mouth  was  exquisitely  "  cut  :  "  it  might  have  been  a  model  for  a 
sculptor  who  desired  to  portray  strong  will  combined  with  generous  sympathy.  Yet 
he  looked  what  he  was — a  brave  man  ;  a  man  whom  no  abuse  could  humble,  no 
injuries  subdue,  no  oppression  crush.  To  me  he  realised  the  idea  of  John  the 
Baptist — '•  one  crying  in  the  wilderness,  who  had  his  loins  girt  about  him,  and 
whose  food  was  locusts  and  wild  honey." 

Gilfillan  represents  Irving  in  his  "  Gallery  of  Literary  Portraits," — a  work  of 
rare  worth,  the  value  of  which  will  increase  more  and  more  as  time  removes  the 
"  originals"  farther  off: — "His  aspect  wild,  yet  grave,  as  of  one  labouring  under 
some  mighty  burden ;  his  voice  deep,  yet  clear,  and  with  crashes  of  power  alter- 
natory  with  cadences  of  softest  melody  ;  his  action,  now  graceful  as  the  wave  of  the 
rose-bush  in  the  breeze,  and  now  fierce  and  urgent  as  the  midnight  motion  of  the 
oak  in  the  hurricane." 

Three  great  men  have  borne  testimony  to  the  high  qualities  of  his  heart  and 
mind.  Procter  says  of  him  : — "  He  was  one  of  the  best  and  truest  men  it  has  been 
my  good  fortune  to  meet  in  life."  Lamb  describes  him  as  "firm,  outspeaking, 
intrepid,  and  docile  as  a  pupil  of  Pythagoras."  And  this  is  the  testimony  of  Thomas 
Carlyle  : — "But  for  Irving  I  had  never  known  what  the  communion  of  man  with 
man  means  :  he  was  the  freest,  brotherliest,  bravest  human  soul  man  ever  came  in 
contact  with  ;  the  best  man  I  have  ever  (after  trial  enough)  found  in  this  world,  or 
now  hope  to  find."  Those  who  would  know  more  of  him  may  consult  the  volumes 
of  his  biographer,  Mrs.  Oliphant. 

In  the  pulpit— where  I  lament  to  say  I  heard  him  but  once,  and  then  not  under 
the  peculiar  influences  that  so  often  swayed  and  guided  him — he  was  undoubtedly 
an  orator,  thoroughly  earnest  in  his  work,  and  beyond  all  question  deeply  and 
solemnly  impressed  with  the  duty  to  which  he  was  devoted.  I  fancy  I  see  him  there 
now— as  Hazlitt  writes,  "  launching  into  his  subject  like  an  eagle  dallying  with  the 
wind."  At  times,  no  doubt,  his  manner,  action,  and  appearance  bordered  on  the 
grotesque  ;  but  it  was  impossible  to  listen  without  being  carried  away  by  the  intense 
fervour  and  fiery  zeal  with  which  he  dwelt  on  the  promises,  or  annunciated  the 
threats,  of  the  prophets,  his  predecessors.  His  vehemence  was  often  startling, 
sometimes  appalling.  Leigh  Hunt  called  him  "  the  Boanerges  of  the  Temple."  He 
was  a  soldier,  as  well  as  a  servant,  of  the  Cross.  Few  men  of  his  age  aroused 
more  bitter  or  more  unjust  and  unchristian  hostility.  He  was  in  advance  of  his 
time ;  perhaps,  if  he  were  living  now,  he  would  still  be '  so,  for  the  spirituality  of 
his  nature  cannot  yet  be  understood.  There  were  not  wanting  those  who  decried 
him  as  a  pretender,  a  hypocrite,  and  a  cheat  :  those  who  knew  him  best  depose  to 
the  honesty  of  his  heart,  the  depth  of  his  convictions,  the  fervour  of  his  faith  ;  and 
many  yet  live  who  will  indorse  this  eloquent  tribute  of  his  biographer  :— "  To  him 


so  MEMORIES. 


mean  thoughts  and  unbeHeving  hearts  were  the  only  things  miraculous  and  out  of 
nature  ;  "  he  "  desired  to  know  nothing  in  heaven  or  earth,  neither  comfort,  nor 
peace,  nor  rest,  nor  any  consolation,  but  the  will  and  work  of  the  Master  he  loved." 
To  some  he  was  but  the  "  comet  of  a  season  ;  "  to  others  he  was  a  burning  and  a 
shining  light,  that,  issuing  from  the  obscure  Scottish  town  of  Annan,  heralded  the 
way  to  life  eternal.  He  died  in  1834,  comparatively  young :  there  were  but  forty- 
two  years  between  his  birth  and  death.  More  than  forty  years  have  passed  since  he 
was  called  from  earth,  and  to  this  generation  the  name  of  Edward  Irving  is  httle 
more  than  a  sound,  "  signifying  nothing  ;  "  yet  it  was  a  power  in  his  day,  and  the 
seed  he  scattered  cannot  all  have  fallen  among  thorns.  His  love  for  Coleridge  was 
devoted — a  mingling  of  admiration,  affection,  and  respect.  "At  the  feet  of  that 
Gamaliel  he  sat  weekly."  Their  friendship  lasted  for  years,  and  was  full  of  kindness 
on  the  part  of  the  philosopher,  and  of  reverential  respect  on  that  of  Irving,  who, 
following  the  natural  instinct  of  his  own  ingenuous  nature,  changed  in  an  instant,  in 
such  a  presence,  from  the  orator  who,  speaking  in  God's  name,  assumed  a  certain 
austere  pomp  of  position,  more  like  an  authoritative  priest  than  a  mere  presbyter, 
into  the  simple  and  candid  listener,  more  ready  to  learn  than  he  was  to  teach. 

They  were  made  acquainted  by  a  mutual  friend,  Basil  Montagu,  who  himself 
occupied  no  humble  station  in  intellectual  society.  His  "  evenings  "  were  often  rare 
mental  treats :  he  presented  the  most  refined  picture  of  a  gentleman — tall,  slight, 
courteous,  seemingly  ever  smiling,  yet  without  an  approach  to  insincerity :  he  had 
the  esteem  of  his  contemporaries,  and  the  homage  of  the  finer  spirits  of  his  time. 
They  were  earned  and  merited.  "Gentle  enthusiast  in  the  cause  of  humanity" — 
that  is  what  Talfourd  calls  Basil  Montagu.  Those  who  knew  him  knew  also  his  wife 
— one  of  the  most  admirable  women  I  have  ever  known.  She  was  likened  to 
Mrs.  Siddons,  and  forcibly  recalled  the  portraits  of  that  eminently-gifted  woman: 
tall  and  stately,  and  with  evidence,  which  time  had  by  no  means  obliterated,  of  great 
beauty  in  youth  ;  her  expression  somewhat  severe,  yet  gracious  in  manner  and 
generous  in  words.  She  had  been  the  honoured  associate  of  many  of  the  finer 
spirits  of  her  time,  and  not  a  few  of  them  were  her  familiar  friends.*  She  might 
have  suggested  these  lines  to  Joanna  Baillie  : — 

"  So  queenly,  so  commanding,  and  so  noble, 
I  shrunk  at  first  in  awe  ;  but  when  she  smiled, 
Methought  I  could  have  compassed  sea  and  land, 
To  do  her  bidding." 

*  Procter,  "  Barry  Cornwall"  (now  removed  from  earth),  was  the  husband  of  the  daughter  of  Mrs.  Montagu 
by  a  former  marriage,  and  their  daughter,  Adelaide  Procter,  dming  her  brief  life,  made  a  name  that  will  he 
classed  with  those  of  the  best  poets  of  the  century.  Basil  Montagu  was  the  son  of  Lord  Sandwich  and  Miss  Bea, 
an  actress,  the  s'ory  of  whose  murder  is  one  of  the  English  causta  cacebres. 


CHABLES  LAMB. 


HARLES  LAMB  was  born  on  the  18th  February,  1775,  in 

Crown  Office   Row,  Inner  Temple,  his   father  being  in   the 

employ  of  one  of  the  Benchers  as  his  "  clerk,  servant,  friend, 

flapper,  guide,  stopwatch,  auditor,  and  treasurer."     On  the 

9th  of  October,  1782,  the  boy  was  placed  in  the   school  of 

Christ's  Hospital,  as  the  "  son  of  John  Lamb,  scrivener,  and 

Elizabeth,   his  wife."      He   is   described   as   then  of   small 

stature,   delicate    frame,   and    constitutionally  nervous    and 

timid  ;  of  mild  countenance,  complexion  clear  brown,  eyes 

of  different  colours,  with  "a  walk   slow  and  pecuHar,"  and   a  "difficulty 

of  utterance  "  that  was  something  more  than  an  impediment  in  his  speech. 

At  Christ's    Hospital   was   formed   his  friendship  with  his   schoolfellow, 

Coleridge — a   friendship   that   continued  without   interruption    until    the 

(i  poet-philosopher  was  laid  in  his  grave  at  Highgate.    They  were,  as  Lamb 

writes,   "  fifty-year  friends    without  interruption."      A  memory  of  this 

estimable  man  may,  therefore,  fitly  follow  that  of  Coleridge,  although  I  knew  less  of 

him  than  I  did  of  many  others  who  have  left  their  impress  on  the  age. 

In  1789  he  quitted  Christ's  Hospital,  and  obtained  a  situation  at  the  India  House, 
where  he  remained  during  thirty-six  years,  rarely  taking  a  holiday.     In   1825  he 

E  2 


n 


MEMORIES. 


"  retired  from  the  drudgery  of  the  desk,"  with  a  pension  sufficient  for  all  the  moderate 
needs  and  luxuries  of  life. 

No  doubt  such  drudgery  may  have  been,  to  some  extent,  irksome  to  a  man  of 
letters,  who  loved  to  use  the  pen  for  a  higher  purpose  than  that  of  dull  entries  in 
heavy  ledgers  ;  but  it  had  a  "  set  off"  in  the  safeguard  from  pecuniary  perils  that 
too  frequently  cage  the  spirit  and  cramp  the  energies  of  men  of  lofty  intellect  and 
aspiring  souls.  On  many  occasions  Lamb  expressed  his  thankfulness  that  he  was 
not,  as  so  many  are — as  so  many  of  his  friends  were — compehed  to  learn,  from 
terrible  experience, — 

In  1822  he  wrote  to  Bernard  Barton,  a  banker's  clerk, — "  I  am,  like  j'ou,  a 
prisoner  to  the  desk ;  I  have  been  chained  to  that  galley  thirty  years  ;  I  have  almost 
grown  to  the  wood."  And  again, — "  What  a  weight  of  wearisome  prison  hours  have 
I  to  look  back  and  forward  to,  as  quite  cut  out  of  life  ! "  Yet  he  tenders  this  counsel 
to  the  Quaker  poet,  who  had  contemplated  resigning  his  post,  "  trusting  to  the  book- 
sellers "  for  bread  : — "  Throw  yourself  from  the  steep  Tarpeian  rock,  slap-dash, 
headlong  upon  iron  spikes,  rather  than  become  the  slave  of  the  booksellers  ;"  and  he 
blesses  his  star  "  that  Providence,  not  seeing  good  to  make  him  independent,  had 
seen  it  next  good  to  settle  him  down  upon  the  stable  foundation  of  Leadenhall  Street;" 
while  he  sympathised  with,  and  mourned  over,  the  "  corroding,  torturing,  tormenting 
thoughts  that  disturb  the  brain  of  the  unlucky  wight  who  must  draw  upon  it  for  daily 
sustenance."  "  There  is  corn  in  Egypt,"  he  wrote,  "while  there  is  cash  in  Leaden- 
hall." He  was  therefore  content  with  his  lot,  although  "  every  half-hour's  absence 
from  office  duties  was  set  down  in  a  book  ;  "  yet  when  ultimately  released  from 
the  Qar,  he  "  could  scarcely  comprehend  the  magnitude  of  his  deliverance  ;  "  and 
was  grateful  for  it. 

But,  in  truth,  it  was  no  punishment  to  Charles  Lamb  to  be  "  in  populous  city 
pent."  In  the  streets  and  alleys  of  the  metropolis  he  found  themes  as  fertile  as  his 
contemporaries  had  sought  and  obtained  among  the  hills  and  valleys  of  Westmore- 
land ;  where  great  men  had  trodden  was  to  him  "  hallowed  ground  ;"  and  many  a 
dingy  building  of  unseemly  brick  was  to  him  holy,  as  the  birth-place,  the  death-place, 
or  the  intellectual  laboratory,  of  some  mighty  luminary  of  the  past.  He  once  paid  a 
visit  to  Coleridge  at  Keswick,  and  though  he  conceded  the  grandeur  and  the  glory 
of  old  Skiddaw,  and  admitted  that  he  might  live  a  year  or  so  among  such  scenes,  he 
should  "  mope  and  pine  away  if  he  had  no  prospect  of  again  seeing  Fleet  Street." 
Writing  to  the  high-priest  of  Nature,  Wordsworth,  he  says,  "  I  do  not  now  care  if  I 
never  see  a  mountain  in  my  life  ;  I  have  passed  all  my  days  in  London,  until  I  have 
formed  as  many  and  intense  local  attachments  as  any  of  you  mountaineers  can  have 
done  with  dead  nature."  And  Talfourd  had  heard  him  declare  that  his  "  love  for 
natural  scenery  would  be  abundantly  satisfied  by  the  patches  of  long  waving  grass 
and  the  stunted  trees  that  blacken  in  the  old  churchyard  nooks  which  you  may  yet 
find  bordering  on  Thames  Street."  The  Strand  and  Fleet  Street  were  to  him  "  better 
places    to  live  in,  for  good  and   all,  than  underneath  old   Skiddaw;"  and  Covent 


CHARLES  LAMB. 


Garden  was  "  dearer  to  him  than  any  garden  of  Alcinous."  So  late  as  1829,  when 
he  had  been  some  years  free  to  wander  at  his  own  sweet  will,  he  writes  to  Words- 
worth,— "  0  let  no  Londoner  imagine  that  health,  and  rest,  and  innocent  occupation, 
interchange  of  converse  sweet,  and  recreative  study,  can  make  the  country  anything 
better  than  altogether  odious  and  detestable."  But  thus  on  the  same  subject  wrote 
Robert  Southey  : — "  To  dwell  in  that  foul  city — to  endure  the  common,  hollow, 
cold,  lip-intercourse  of  life — to  walk  abroad  and  never  see  green  field,  or  running 
brook,  or  setting  sun — will  it  not  wither  up  my  faculties  like  some  poor  myrtle  that 
in  the 

'  Town  air 
Pines  in  the  parlour  window  V" 

Lamb  is  not   the   only  Londoner  to  whom  the   huge   city  has   been,   or  is,   a 
refreshing  luxury.     James  Smith  used  to  say  that  "  London  was  the  best  place  in 


{y/7i//T/i-<^i^ ,  "Cc^A^  -^/T—zn^  €^y7.^A-cc^i/-e^(^jM^c^^^2^'^ 


^ 


^^^^  ^^^  ^f^k^ c^y/-^  ^^^^^^^^ 


^c^  -f-^^^, 


summer,  and  the  only  place  in  winter."  It  was  Jekyll  who  proposed  to  make 
country  lanes  tolerable  by  having  them  paved.  Dr.  Johnson  grew  angry  when 
people  abused  London,  saying,  "  Sir,  the  man  who  is  tired  of  London  is  tired  of 
existence."  While  I  had  a  residence  among  the  healthful  commons  and  thick  woods 
of  West  Surrey,  a  distinguished  author  of  this  class  was  my  guest,*  and  was  located 
in  a  pretty  Httle  lodge  sheltered  among  tall  trees,  where  nightingales  were  smgmg. 
In  the  morning  he  complained  they  had  kept  him  awake  all  night.  "  Well,"  I  said, 
"  surely  it  is  not  a  misery  to  be  kept  awake  by  '  the  bird  most  musical.'  "  "  Nay," 
he  replied,  "  if  I  am  kept  from  sleep,  I  do  not  see  much  difference  between  nightm- 

*  Frederick  William  Fairholt  an  artist  an^  man  oHett^^^^^^  ^^tSJ?  t^wiaicft'waf a  fe^Tar^SSX?!; 
and  of  great  value  :  the  best  of  them  were  first  Panted  "^^^^f^^  *  "^""^^'C  Mend-and  acoomlanied  me  dui-ing 
during  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century.^  T,^,^!!L'lZu" 'Uh";  "  Boofe  trTham^^^^^^^  of  British  BaUads,?' 

most  of  my  excursions  to  write  the  "Baronial  HaUs,  ^^^.^°^^  did  veiy  much  indeed.    The  notes  to 

^^^^.'!^TlTi^Z:^X'^^-'^^  ^^^^^ZTl^^ii^^^^^r  Iwelargelyto  his  pencil  and 
his  pen. 


54 


MEMORIES. 


^ 


gales  and  cats  ! "  The  love  of  Lamb  for  London  was,  in  fact,  an  absolute  passion. 
Hazlitt  says  of  him,  "  The  streets  of  London  are  his  faery  land,  teeming  with  wonder, 
with  life  and  interest,  to  his  retrospective  glance,  as  it  did  to  the  eager  eye  of  child- 
hood. He  has  contrived  to  weave  its  tritest  traditions  into  a  bright  and  endless 
romance." 

Although  Lamb  had  thus  ample  scope  for  continual  enjoyment,  and  was  saved 
from  the  necessities  that  so  often  beset  the  paths  of  men  of  genius,  there  was  a 
skeleton  in  his  house,  and  pleasure  was  ever  associated  with  a  terror  more  appalling 
than  Death.  His  beloved  sister — his  dear  companion  and  cherished  friend — was 
subject  to  periodical  fits  of  insanity,  during  one  of  which,  with  her  own  hand,  she 
killed  her  beloved  mother.  There  is  nothing  in  human  history  more  entirely  sad 
than  the  records  of  the  walks  these  two  made  together,  when,  thereafter,  as  the  cloud 
came  over  her  mind,  and  she  saw  the  evil  hour  approaching,  they  paced  along  the 
road  and  across  fields,  weeping  bitterly  both — she  to  be  left  at  the  lunatic  asylum  until 
time  and  regimen  restored  reason  and  he  to  return  to  his  mournful  and  lonely  home. 
What  a  sad  picture  it  is — harrowing,  appalling  !  Lamb  carried  v/ith  him  on  such 
journeys  the  "  strait  waistcoat "  that  was  ever  near  at  hand,  and  brought  it  back  with 
him  when,  sufficiently  recovered,  she  returned  with  him  to  gladden  his  roof-tree ;  for 
she  brought  with  her  the  sunshine  as  well  as  the  shadow. 

The  fatal  death  of  the  mother  took  place  on  the  22nd  September,  1796.  There 
was,  of  course,  a  coroner's  inquest,  and  a  verdict — "Lunacy."  *  The  daughter  was 
confined  in  Bedlam.  After  a  time  she  was  given  up  to  "  her  friends,"  and  her  brother 
thenceforward  became  her  "  guardian."  The  word  is  far  too  weak  to  convey  an 
idea  of  the  never-ceasing,  never-ending  care  and  thought  for  her  consolation  and 
comparative  comfort.  It  is  indeed  a  sad  task  to  picture  him,  with  a  perpetual  dread 
of  insanity  hauntiLg  him  •,\  loving  one,  whom  he  addresses  as  "  the  fair-haired  maid" 
(of  whom  nothing  further  is  known),  but  sacrificing  that,  and  all  else,  to  solemn  and 
mournful  Duty.  It  was,  however,  duty  lightened  by  love  ;  for  intense  affection  linked 
these  two  together  from  the  earliest  to  the  latest  hours  of  their  lives.  "  The  two 
lived  as  one  in  double  singleness  together:"  on  her  side  afiectionate  and  earnest 
watching;  on  his  a  charming  deference,  "pleasant  evasions,"  little  touches  of 
gratitude,  perpetual  care — anxious  and  troubled  care. 

In  one  of  her  letters  to  her  brother  during  her  temporary  confinement  she  writes : 
"  The  spirit  of  my  mother  seems  to  descend  and  smile  upon  me,  and  bid  me  live  to 
enjoy  the  life  and  reason  the  Almighty  has  given  me."  And  she  did  live  to  enjoy 
both,  in  calm  and  sorrowful  content,  to  a  very  old  age,  surviving  her  brother  many 
years — dying  on  the  20th  of  May,  1847.    She  was  placed  in  the  grave  by  his  side: — 

"In  death  they  were  not  divided." 

*  The  awful  stoiy  is  told  by  himself  in  a  letler  to  Coleridge  : — "  My  poor  dearest  sister,  in  a  fit  of  insanity,  has 
been  the  death  of  her  own  mother.  I  was  at  hand  time  enough  only  to  snatch  the  knife  out  of  her  grasp.  My  poor 
father  was  slightly  wounded."  That  terrible  circumstance  must  be  regarded  as  the  "  influence  "  that  ruled  his  life  : 
it  is  the  key  that  unlocks  the  closet,  and  exposes  the  skeleton  within  :  his  life  would,  indeed,  be  unintelligible 
unless  this  frightful  incident  is  borne  in  mind.  It  explains  and  modifies  all  his  errors,  and  they  were  yery  tew — 
none  that  tarnished  his  character  or  hardened  his  heart. 

+  There  was  a  tendency  to  insanity  in  the  family ;  and  Charles  himself  was  for  a  time  "  under  restraint."    In  , 
one  of  his  lettei's  to  Coleridge  he  refers  to  the  "six  months  he  was  in  a  mad-house  at  Hoxton." 


CHARLES  LAMB. 


55 


His  life  is  truly  described  as  a  "  life  of  uncongenial  toil,  diversified  with  frequent 
sorrow."  Talfourd  gently  refers  to  his  only  blot— his  "  one  single  frailty  "— "  the 
eagerness  with  which  he  would  quaff  exciting  Hquors ; "  that  he  attributes  to  "  a 
physical  peculiarity  of  constitution."  *  It  was  "  a  kind  of  corporeal  need,"  augmented, 
if  not  induced,  by  the  heavy,  irksome  labours  of  his  dull  office,  and  still  more  by 
"the  sorrows  that  environed  him,  and  which  tempted  him  to  snatch  a  fearful  joy." 
Lamb  himself  refers  to  his  excessive  love  of  tobacco,  and  his  vain  attempts  to  subdue 
or  to  control  it,  and  describes  "  how  from  illuminating  it  came  to  darken,  from  a  quick 
solace  it  turned  to  a  negative  relief,  thence  to  a  restlessness  and  dissatisfaction,  thence 
to  a  positive  misery." 

Yet,  although  with  many  drawbacks,  the  life  of  Charles  Lamb  was  by  no  means 
without  enjoyment.  He  had  many  attached  friends,  the  earhest  and  the  latest  being 
his  school-mate  Coleridge.     This  tribute  is  from  his  pen  :— 


'  My  pentle-hearted  Charles !  for  thou  hast  pined 
And  hungered  alter  nature  many  a  year, 
In  the  great  city  pent ;  winning  thy  way 
With  sad  yet  patient  soul,  through  evil  and  pain 
And  strange  calamity!  " 


And  this  is  the  tribute  of  Kobert  Southey 


"  Charles  Lamb,  to  those  who  know  thee  justly  dear 
For  rarest  genius  and  for  sterling  worth. 
Unchanging  friendship,  warmth  of  heart  sincere, 
And  wit  that  never  gave  an  ill  thought  buih, 
Nor  even  in  its  sport  infixed  a  sting." 

It  was  said  of  him  that  "  he  had  the  faculty  of  turning  even  casual  acquaintances 
into  friends,"  and  he  thus  touchingly  records  their  departure: — 

"  All.  all  are  gone,  the  old  famiHax  faces  ; 
Sjme  they  have  died,  and  some  they  have  left  me,  ' 

And  some  are  taken  from  me,  all  are  departed, 
All,  aU  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces." 

He  was  a  most  delightful  companion,  and  a  firm  and  true  and  never-changing 
friend.  Of  the  latter  there  is  evidence  in  his  memorable  letter  to  Southey,  whom 
he  considered  to  h;ive  wrongfully  assailed  Leigh  Hunt;t  of  the  former  we  have  the 
testimony  of  so  many  that  it  is  needless  to  quote  them.  Among  his  more  frequent 
companions  and  intimate  friends  were  Hazlitt,  Grodwin,  Thelwall,  Basil  Montagu  and 
his  estimable  lady,  Procter,  Barnes,  Haydon,  Carey,  Knowles,  Moxon,  Hood,  and 
Hone  ;  while,  later  in  life,  he  was  often  cheered  by  the  light  that  emanated  from 
good  and  tender  Talfourd.  His  loving  and  eloquent  biographer  describes,  with 
singular  felicity.  Lamb's  "  suppers  "  in  the  Middle  Temple.  In  1800  he  was  living 
at  No.  16,  Mitre  Court  Buildings;  in  1817  he  had  removed  to  lodgings  in  Kusseli 
Street,  Covent  Garden,  the  corner  house,   "  delightfully  situated  between  the  two 

*  Procter  is  by  no  means  wilUng  to  admit  that  the  charge  of  inebriety  can  be  sustained  :  indeed,  he  denies  that 
it  can  be  substantiated  by  proof,  intimating  that  a  very  small  portion  of  alcohol  "  upset  his  head." 

+  Lamb's  bitter  letter  to  Southey— whose  only  offence  was  that  in  an  altiole  in  the  Qunrterly  Beview  he  had 
spoken  of  Hunt  as  the  author  of  a  book  "  that  wants  only  a  sounder  religious  feeb'ng  to  be  as  delightful  as  it  is 
original" — he  repented  of,  and  atoned  for  His  guardian  angel,  he  said  (meaning  his  sitter),  was  absent  when  he 
wrote  it.  .  They  met,  and  were  again  friends  ;  and  in  a  letter  to  Southey,  written  long  afterwards,  he  thus  wrote  : — 
'■■  Look  on  me  as  a  dog  who  went  once  temporarily  insane  and  bit  you." 


MEMORIES. 


I 


great  theatres."  Afterwards  he  was  again  a  resident  in  the  Temple.  Later  in  life 
his  residence  was  at  Enfield,  in  an  "odd-looking,  gambogish-coloured  house,"  from 
Avhich,  in  1833,  he  removed  to  Church  Street,  Edmonton.  In  1834,  in  the  sixtieth 
year  of  his  age,  he  died. 

"  Bay  Cottage,"  as  it  is  now  called — and  I  believe  was  called  when  Lamb 
inhabited  it — is  a  poor  building  ;  mournful-looking  enough ;  it  could  never  have 
been  calculated  to  dissipate  the  gloom  that  must  have  perpetually  saddened  the 
heart  and  mind  of  the  poet. 

Lamb  and  his  sister  were  but  lodgers  :  the  house  was  kept  by  a  woman  named  Red- 
ford,  who — I  learned  from  a  person  still  residing  there  (in  1870),  and  who  well  remem- 


lamb's  residence  at  bnpield. 

bered  both  the  afflicted  inmates — lived  by  taking  charge  of  insane  patients,  and  was 
by  no  means  worthy  of  such  a  trust,  for  she  had  habits  that  probably  did  not  receive 
any  check  from  the  interesting  patients  of, whom  she  had  the  care.  The  person  I. 
refer  to  recollected  Miss  Lamb  cutting  up  her  feather-bed,  and  scattering  the  feathers 
to  the  winds  out  of  her  window ;  and  told  me,  what  I  am  loath  to  believe,  that 
whenever  Lamb  or  his  sister  "  misbehaved  "  themselves,  Bedford  was  in  the  habit  of 
thrusting  them  into  a  miserable  closet  of  the  room,  where  they  were  confined  some- 
times for  hours  together  until  it  pleased  the  harpy  to  give  them  freedom.* 

Lamb  did    not  die   in   that   hurailiating  house  :    his  friends — according  to    the 


*  My  valued  and  venerable  friend,  Mr.  Procter,  not  only  questioned  this  statement,  but  protested  against  it. 
Notwithstanding,  1  believe  it  to  be  correct ;  that  it  is  the  melancholy  record  of  a  sad  fact. 


CHARLES  LAMB. 


authority  I  have  quoted — having  discovered  the  manner  in  which  he  M^as  treated, 
removed  him  from  the  woman's  custody,  a  few  weeks  before  his  death,  to  Edmonton, 
and  it  was  at  Edmonton  he  died. 

Lamb  has  recently  received  ample  justice  at  the  hands  of  an  estimable  gentleman 
and  delightful  author — a  kindred  spirit,  who  was  the  friend  of  nearly  all  the  great 
men  and  women  of  his  age,  and  who  could  in  no  way  better  have  closed  a  long 
career  of  honourable  intellectual  labour  than  by  a  biography  of  one  he  knew  so  well 
and  loved  so  much.  Procter  was  the  last  of  that  glorious  galaxy  of  genius  that, 
early  in  the  present  century,  glorified  the  intellectual  world  : — 

"  All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces  !  " 

He  outlived  all  of  them.  He  was  still  on  earth  when  these  pages  were  first  printed. 
He  has  left  earth  now.     I  may  have  more  to  say  of  him  before  I  close  this  volume. 

Lamb  had  many  peculiarities ;  all  of  them  were,  to  say  the  least,  harmless.  He 
playfully  alludes  to  some  of  them  :  "I  never  could  seal  a  letter  without  dropping  the 
wax  on  one  side,  besides  scalding  my  fingers."  "  My  letters  are  generally  charged 
double  at  the  post-office,  from  their  clumsiness  of  foldure." 

The  first  time  I  saw  and  spoke  with  Charles  Lamb  was  where  he  was  most  at 
home — in  Fleet  Street.  He  was  of  diminutive  and  even  ungraceful  appearance,  thin 
and  wiry,  clumsily  clad,  and  with  a  shuffling  gait,  more  than  awkward  ;  though 
covered,  it  was  easy  to  perceive  that  the  head  was  of  no  common  order,  for  the  hat 
fell  back  as  if  it  fitted  better  there  than  over  a  large  intellectual  forehead,  which 
overhung  a  countenance  somewhat  expressive  of  anxiety  and  even  pain.  His  wit 
was  in  his  eye — luminous,  quick,  and  restless ;  and  the  smile  that  played  about 
his  mouth  was  cordial  and  good-humoured.  His  person  and  his  mind  were  happily 
characterised  by  his  contemporary,  Leigh  Hunt:  "As  his  frame,  so  his  genius; 
as  fit  for  thought  as  can  be,  and  equally  as  unfit  for  action."  In  one  of  his  playful 
moods  he  thus  described  himself:  "  Below  the  middle  stature,  cast  of  face  slightly 
Jewish,  stammers  abominably."  Leigh  Hunt  recollected  him,  when  young,  coming 
to  see  the  boys  at  Christ's  Hospital,  "  with  a  pensive,  brown,  handsome,  and  kindly 
face,  and  a  gait  advancing  with  a  motion  from  side  to  side,  between  involuntary 
consciousness  and  attempted  ease  ;"  and  he  says  of  him  in  after  life,  "He  had  a 
head  worthy  of  Aristotle,  with  as  pure  a  heart  as  ever  beat  in  human  bosom,  and 
limbs  very  fragile  to  sustain  it.  His  features  are  strongly  yet  delicately  cut ;  he  has 
a  fine  eye  as  well  as  forehead,  and  no  face  carries  in  it  greater  marks  of  thought  and 
feeling."  But  the  most  finished  picture  of  the  man  is  that  which  his  friend  Talfourd 
draws  :  "  A  light  frame,  so  fragile  that  it  seemed  as  if  a  breath  would  overthrow  it, 
clad  in  clerk-like  black,  was  surmounted  by  a  head  of  form  and  expression  the  most 
noble  and  sweet.  His  black  hair  curled  crisply  about  an  expanded  forehead ;  his 
eyes,  softly  brown,  twinkled  with  varying  expression,  though  the  prevalent  feeling 
was  sad  ;  and  the  nose  slightly  curved,  and  delicately  carved  at  the  nostril,  with  the 
lower  outline  of  the  face  regularly  oval,  completed  a  head  which  was  finely  placed 
on  the  shoulders,  and  gave  importance  and  even  dignity  to  a  diminutive  and  shadowy 
stem."     Thus  writes  Hazlitt  of  Lamb  :   "  There  is  a  primitive  simplicity  and  self- 


denial  about  his  manners,  and  a  Quakerism  in  his  personal  appearance,  which  is 
however,  relieved  by  a  fine  Titian  head,  full  of  dumb  eloquence."  And  this  is  the 
picture  drawn  of  him  by  the  American,  N.  P.  Willis  : — "  Enter,  a  gentleman  in  black 
small-clothes  and  gaiters,  short  and  very  slight  in  his  person,  his  head  set  on  his 
shoulders  with  a  thoughtful  forward  bend,  his  hair  just  sprinkled  with  grey,  a 
beautiful  deep-set  eye,  aquiline  nose,  and  a  very  indescribable  mouth." '  John 
Foster,  writing  of  him  in  the  Xew  Monthly  Magazirie  (1835),  says  : — "His  face  was 
deeply  marked,  and  full  of  noble  lines — traces  of  sensibility,  imagination,  suffering, 
and  much  thought."  Recently,  Procter  has  thus  described  Lamb  : — "  A  small  spare 
man- — somewhat  stiff  in  his  manner,  and  almost  clerical  in  his  dress,  which  indicated 
much  wear  ;  he  had  a  long,  melancholy  face,  with  keen,  penetrating  eyes  ;  he  had 
a  dark  complexion,  dark  curling  hair,  almost  black  ;  and  a  grave  look,  lighting  up 
occasionally,  and  capable  of  sudden  merriment ;  his  lip  tremulous  with  expression ; 
his  brown  eyes  were  quick,  restless,  and  glittering." 

Some  time  in  1827  or  1828  I  met  Lamb  twice  or  thrice  at  the  house  of  Coleridge, 
and  one  evening  in  particular  I  recall  with  peculiar  pleasure.  There  were  not  many 
present,  none  I  can  remember,  except  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gillman.  The  poet-philosopher 
engaged  in  a  contest  of  words  with  his  friend  upon  that  topic  concerning  which 
Coleridge  was  ever  eloquent — the  power  to  reconcile  Fate  with  Free-will.  Alas !  I 
am  unable  to  recall  to  memory  a  single  sentence  that  was  said.  I  only  know  the 
impression  left  upon  me  was  that  of  envy  of  the  one  and  pity  for  the  other ;  envy  of 
the  philosopher  who  reasoned  so  cheerfully  and  hopefully,  and  pity  for  the  essayist 
whose  despondency  seemed  rather  of  the  heart  than  of  the  mind.  Unhappily  I  did 
not  turn  to  account  the  opportunities  I  had  of  seeing  and  knowing  more  of  Lamb. 
I  might  surely  have  done  so  ;  but  little  thought  had  I  then,  or  for  a  long  time 
afterwards,  that  it  would  ever  be  my  task  to  write  a  memory  of  the  man.  It  is  by 
no  means  the  only  case  in  which  I  had  opportunities  of  acquiring  and  communicating 
valuable  knowledge. 

"  His  poems  were  admirable,  and  often  contained  as  deep  things  as  the  wisdom 
of  some  who  have  greater  names  :  "  that  is  the  statement  of  one  who  knew  him 
intimately.  "No  one,"  writes  Hazlitt,  "  ever  stammered  out  such  fine,  piquant, 
deep,  eloquent  things  in  half-a-dozen  half-sentences." 

His  more  enthusiastic  admirers  give  him  high  rank  as  a  poet :  I  confess  I  cannot 
see  much  in  his  poetry  that  justifies  the  world  in  so  placing  him,  although  there  are 
two  or  three  of  his  poems  that  warrant  the  high  praise  he  received.  As  a  gentle  and 
genial  critic  he  claims  a  foremost  station.*  But  it  is  as  an  essayist  that  he  has  been, 
and  ever  will  be,  most  valued.  The  "Essays  of  Elia  "  have  a  prominent  position 
among  the  "  classics"  of  England.     They  are  full  of  wisdom,  pregnant  of  genuine 

*  Of  Mr  ready  wit  many  anecdotes  are  told.  That  is  well  known  which  describes  him  as  at  a  rubber  of  whist 
(a  game  of  which  he  was  excessively  fond),  saying  to  his  partner,  "  Oh,  if  dirt  wei'e  trumps,  what  a  hand  you  would 
have  ! "  Mrs.  Mathews  (the  widow  of  the  famous  Charles),  who  describes  him  as  tall,  and  lean,  and  little  beholden 
to  his  tailor — "  his  face  the  gravest  I  have  ever  seen  " — tells  the  somewhat  weU-known  story  of  Lamb  taking  sea- 
baths,  giving  directions  to  the  man  who  was  to  dip  him,  stuttering  them  out—"  I-I-l'm  to  be  dip-p  ped."  "Yes, 
sir  ; "  and  down  he  went.  Rising  and  regaining  liis  breath,  he  repeated,  "  I-I'm  to  be  dip-dip-ped."  "  Yes,  sir ; 
and  down  he  went  again.  A  thii'd  lime  the  dose  was  repeated,  and  then,  when  nearly  suffocated,  Lamb  managed 
to  stutter  out,  "  0-only  once." 


CHARLES  LAMB. 


59 


wit,  abound  in  true  pathos,  and  have  a  rich  vein  of  humour  running  throu^^h  them 
all.  The  kindliness  of  his  heart  and  the  playfulness  of  his  fancy  are  spread  over 
every  page.  If  his  maturer  taste  and  extensive  reading  compelled  him  to  try  all 
modern  writers  by  a  severe  standard,  he  reproved  with  the  mildly  persuasive  bearing 
of  a  sympathising  judge  : — 

"  Of  right  and  -wrong  he  taught 
Truths  as  refined  as  ever  Athens  heard." 

No  writer  more  fully  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  older  dramatists  ;  and  few  have 


THE  GRAVE  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 


so  largely  aided  to  render  them  popular  in  our  age.*  If  his  style  reminds  us  forcibly 
of  the  "  old  inventive  poets,"  he  never  appears  an  imitator  of  them.  His  mind  was 
akin  to  theirs  ;  he  lived  his  days  and  nights  in  their  company. 

I  copy  these  lines  from  Mrs.  Hall's  Album ;  I  believe  they  have  not  been  hereto- 
fore in  print : — 


*  There  is  a  story  told  that  Godwin,  having  read  a  passage  which  he  believed  to  be  out  of  one  of  the  old  dramatic 
poe's,  sought  eagerly  for  it,  in  vain,  through  the  pages  of  the  early  dramatists,  and,  in  his  perplexity,  applied  to 
Lamb  to  guide  him.    It  was  a  passage  from  John  Woodvill ! 


6o  MEMORIES. 


"I  had  sense  in  dreams  of  a  Beauty  rare, 
Whom  fate  had  spell-bound  and  rooted  there, 
Stooping,  like  some  enchanted  theme. 
Over  the  marge  of  that  crystal  stream 
Where  the  blooming  Greek,  to  echo  blind, 
With  self-love  fond,  had  to  waters  pined. 
Ages  had  waked,  and  ages  slept, 
And  that  bending  posture  stiU  she  kept ; 
For  her  eyes  she  may  not  turn  away 
Till  a  fairer  object  shall  pass  that  way ; 
Till  an  image  more  beauteous  this  world  can  show 
Than  her  own  which  she  sees  in  the  mirror  below. 
Pore  on,  fair  creature,  for  ever  pore. 
Nor  dream  to  be  disenchanted  more  ; 
For  vain  is  expectance,  and  wish  is  vain. 
Till  a  new  Narcissus  can  come  again." — C.  Lamb. 

It  is  said  of  Lamb  that,  being  applied  to  for  a  memoir  of  himself,  he  made  answer 
that  "  it  would  go  into  an  epigram."  His  life  was  indeed  of  "  mingled  yarn,"  good 
and  ill  together,  but  the  latter  was  in  the  larger  proportion.  "  He  had  strange 
phases  of  calamity,"  living  in  continual  terror.  He  described  himself  as  once 
"writing  a  playful  essay  with  tears  trickling  down  his  cheeks."  Yet  in  none  of  his 
writings  is  there  any  taint  of  the  gloom  that  brings  discontent ;  if  he  had  unhappily 
too  little  trust  in  Providence,  he  did  not  murmur  at  a  dispensation  terribly  calami- 
tous. If  seldom  cheerful,  he  was  often  merry  :  and  in  none  of  his  writings  is  there 
evidence  of  ill-nature,  jealousy,  or  envy.  He  wrote  for  periodicals  of  opposite 
opinions  ;  he  was  the  friend  of  Southey,  and  he  was  the  friend  of  Hazlitt ;  he  aroused 
no  animosities,  and  enemies  he  had  none. 

There  must  have  been  much  in  the  genial  and  lovable  nature  of  the  man  to 
attract  to  him — in  a  comparatively  humble  position,  and  with  restricted,  rather  than 
liberal,  means — so  many  attached  friends  who  are  renowned  in  the  literary  history  of 
the  epoch. 

He  was  not  young,  but  not  old,  when  called  from  earth.  "  He  sank  into  death 
as  placidly  as  into  sleep,"  writes  his  loved  and  loving  friend  Talfourd ;  he  was  laid  in 
Edmonton  Churchyard,  "  in  a  spot  which,  a  short  time  before,  he  had  pointed  out  to 
the  sexton  as  the  place  of  his  choice  for  a  final  home."  A  venerable  yew-tree  stUl 
lives  beside  a  tomb  of  remote  date  ;  and  several  almshouses  for  aged  men  and  women 
skirt  one  of  the  sides  of  the  cemetery — pleasant  objects  for  the  poet  to  have  thought 
over  when  selecting  his  last  resting-place.  A  line  from  Wordsworth's  Monody  to  his 
memory  will  fitly  close  a  brief  record  of  his  life  : — 

"  Oh,  he  was  good,  if  ever  good  man  lived." 

On  the  tombstone  is  the  following  inscription  : — 

TO   THE   MEMORY 

OF 

CHAELESLAMB, 

DIED  27th  DECEMBER,  1834,  AGED  59. 

"  Farewell,  dear  friend ;  that  smile,  that  harmless  mii'th, 
No  more  shall  gladden  our  domestic  hearth ; 
That  rising  tear,  with  pain  forbid  to  flow. 
Better  than  words  no  more  assuage  our  woe  ; 
That  hand  outstretched  from  small  but  well-earned  store, 
Yields  succour  to  the  destitute  no  more. 


MOXON.  6[ 

Yet  art  thou  not  all  lost  ;  through  many  an  age, 
With  stei'ling  sense  and  humour,  shall  thy  page 
Win  many  an  English  bosom,  pleased  to  see 
That  old  and  happier  vein  revived  in  thee. 
This  for  oiu-  earth  ;  and  if  with  friends  we  share 
Our  joys  in  heaven,  we  hope  to  meet  thee  there." 

ALSO  MARY  ANNE  LAMB, 

SISTEK   OF   THE   ABOVE, 

BORN  3rd  DECEMBER,  1767.     DIED  20™  MAY,  1847. 

The  lines  were  written  at  the  suggestion  of  the  publisher,  Moxon,  by  the  Rev.  F. 
H.  Gary,*  the  translator  of  Dante.  He  was  one  of  the  essayist's  dearest  friends. 
Many  will  remember  that  estimable  man  and  most  accomplished  scholar,  when  dis- 
charging his  daily  duty  at  the  British  Museum.  I  recall  him  to  memory  as  very 
kindly,  with  a  most  gracious  and  sympathising  expression ;  slow  in  his  movements, 
as  if  he  were  always  in  thought,  living  among  the  books  of  which  he  was  the  cus- 
todian, and  sought  only  the  companionship  of  the  lofty  spirits  who  had  gone  from 
earth — those  who,  though  dead,  yet  speak.  I  remember  Ugo  Foscolo  (and  there 
could  have  been  no  better  authority)  telling  me  he  considered  Gary's  translation  of 
Dante  not  only  the  best  translation  in  the  English  language,  but  the  best  translation 
in  any  language.  There  have  since  been  several  translations  of  the  mighty  Floren- 
tine, but  they  can  be  tolerated  only  by  those  who  have  not  read  that  of  the  Rev.  F. 
H.  Gary. 

There  were  few  men  for  whom  Lamb  entertained  a  warmer  affection  than  he  did 
for  the  publisher  Moxon  ;  but  Moxon  was  a  poet  also,  and  produced  Sonnets  of  much 
beauty.  He  was  essentially  aided  by  Mr.  Rogers  in  his  business,  and  that  business 
is  now  carried  on  by  Mr.  Moxon's  son.  Moxon  died  early  in  life ;  his  constitution 
was  delicate  always,  and  the  somewhat  sad  and  painful  expression  of  his  gentle  coun- 
tenance was  indicative  of  the  disease  to  which  he  succumbed.  He  was  the  executor 
of  Gharles  Lamb,  and  maintained  a  close  correspondence  and  an  intimate  relationship 


*  His  son,  who  gives  me  this  information,  transcribes  for  me  "  some  other  lines  by  the  same  pen,  written  on 
receiving  back,  through  Mr.  Moxon,  Phillips's  '  Theatorem  Poetee  AngUcanorum,'  which  Lamb  had  borrowed  of 
my  father.  They  give  a  beautiful  picture  of  Lamb's  character,  alluding  in  happy  vein  even  to  his  well-known 
weakness.  The  book  had  a  leaf  tui'ned  down  at  the  account  of  Sir  PhQip  Sidney.  Its  receipt  was  acknowledged  to 
Moxon  as  follows  . — 

'  So  should  it  be,  my  gentle  friend, 

Thy  leaf  last  closed  at  Sidney's  end. 

Thou  too,  like  Sidney,  wouldst  have  given 

The  water,  thirsting,  and  neai'  heaven  ; 

Nay,  were  it  wine,  flll'd  to  the  brim. 

Thou  hadst  look'd  hard,  but  given,  like  him. 

And  art  thou  mingled  then  among 

Those  famous  sons  of  ancient  song  ? 

And  do  they  gather  round  and  praise 

Thy  relish  of  their  nobler  lays, 

Waxing'in  mirth  to  hear  thee  tell 

With  what  strange  mortals  thou  didst  dwell. 

At  thy  quaint  sallies  more  delighted 

Than  any  long  among  them  lighted  ? 

'Tis  done  ;  and  thou  hast  Joined  a  ciew, 

To  whom  thy  soul  was  justly  due  ; 

And  yet  I  think,  where'er  those  be, 

They'll  scarcely  love  thee  more  than  we.' " 


62  MEMORIES. 


I 


with  many  other  poets  of  his  time,  keeping  their  friendship  to  the  last,  and  sustaining 
the  high  character  that  made  them  his  friends.* 

Another  remarkable  person  is  somewhat  mixed  up  with  the  history  of  Charles 
Lamb.  William  Hone  was  a  bhort,  stout,  active  man,  with  a  keen  eye,  a  well- 
developed  forehead,  having  a  tendency  to  baldness,  a  slightly  upturned  nose,  and  a 
general  look  of  cleverness.  He  had  been  an  unsuccessful  man  of  projects,  and  an 
unlucky  bookseller,  when  he  published  in  a  cheap  form  some  political  parodies  that 
had  considerable  sale.  This  led  to  his  famous  prosecutions,  as  the  Government  had 
determined  to  stop  the  issue  of  all  such  works.  At  that  time  he  had  a  small  shop  at 
No.  67,  Old  Bailey :  here  he  was  suddenly  arrested  on  the  charge  of  publishing 
"impious  and  profane  libels,"  committed  to  the  King's  Bench,  where  he  remained 
for  two  months,  and  was  ultimately  tried  in  Guildhall  on  three  successive  days  of 
December,  1817.  He  was  too  poor  to  engage  counsel,  and  defended  himself.  His 
defence  was  a  marvel,  from  the  great  and  peculiar  knowledge  he  displayed  of  the 
history  of  parody  from  the  days  of  Luther,  and  he  proved  to  the  satisfaction  of  a  jury 
that  no  such  work  as  he  was  tried  for  had  ever  been  considered  criminal  in  the  sense 
the  Attorney-General  put  upon  it.  Justice  Abbott  tried  him  the  first  day,  but  on  the 
second  Lord  Chief  Justice  Ellenborough  came  expressly  to — convict.  He  began  by 
endeavouring  to  arrest  his  style  of  defence,  but  Hone  out-mastered  him,  and  was 
again  acquitted.  With  unparalleled  vindictiveness  the  third  trial  was  proceeded 
with  the  next  day,  when  Hone  was  almost  too  weak  to  speak.  But  the  harshness  of 
Ellenborough  strung  up  his  energies,  and  he  again  induced  the  jury  to  deliver  a 
verdict  in  his  favour.  His  boldness  and  learning,  and  the  stout  stand  he  had  made 
against  legal  tyranny,  led  to  a  public  subscription  on  his  behalf,  and  he  opened  a 
shop  (46,  Ludgate  Hill),  whence  emanated  that  famous  series  of  political  pamphlets, 
illustrated  by  George  Cruikshauk — the  severest  stings  the  Government  had  to  endure. 
They  sold  enormously  :  twenty-five  or  thirty  editions  of  more  than  a  thousand  each, 
spread  them  far  and  wide.  Queen  Caroline's  arrival,  her  popularity,  and  the  unpopu- 
larity of  the  king  and  court,  gave  full  scope  for  satire,  of  which  he  availed  himself. 
In  1825,  when  pohtics  had  lulled,  he  projected  and  pubHshed  the  "  Every- day 
Book,"  in  which  his  peculiar  and  out-of-the-way  knowledge  found  useful  vent.  That 
was  succeeded  by  other  works,  continued  for  a  series  of  years,  when  the  public 
interest  began  to  fail,  and  ultimately  Hone  established  a  dining-establishment  in 
Gracechurch  Street.  After  some  time  that  failed  also,  and  he  died  in  obscure  and 
needy  circumstances. 

Although  so  many  of  Hone's  parodies  were  printed,  it  is  difficult  now  to  procure 
a  copy  of  any  one  of  them.  That  some  of  them  were  "  atrocities  "  there  can  be  no 
doubt ;  and  it  is  certain  that  their  issue  ought  to  have  been  stopped,  and  their  author 
punished.  But  the  Government  assumed  the  attitude  of  a  bully  and  the  character  of 
an  oppressor,  and  public  sympathy  was  with  the  wrong-doer.     I  frequently  talked 

*  Moxon  married  Miss  Emma  Isola,  a  "very  dear  friend"  of  the  Lambs,  who  was  regarded,  indeed,  as  their 
adopted  daughter. 


WILLIAM  GODWIN. 


63 


with  Hone  in  his  shop  on  Ludgate  Hill,  and  found  him  gentle  in  manners,  obliging, 
and. full  of  information,  which  he  was  ever  ready  to  communicate. 

William  Godwin,  the  close  associate,  if  not  the  friend,  of  Lamb,  I  met  in  the 
company  of  Elia  more  than  once.  But  I  remember  him  when  he  kept  a  bookseller's 
shop  on  Snow  Hill.  I  was  a  schoolboy  then,  and  purchased  a  book  there — handed 
to  me  by  himself.  It  was  a  poor  shop,  poorly  furnished;  its  contents  consisting 
chiefly  of  children's  books,  with  the  old  coloured  prints  that  would  strangely  contrast 
with  the  art-illustrations  of  to-day.* 

He  was  the  husband  of  Mary  Wolstoncroft.  They  had  lived  together  in  loose 
bonds,  believing,  or  at  least  arguing,  that  wedlock  was  an  unbecoming  tie.  They 
changed  their  minds,  however,  in  course  of  time,  yielding  probably  to  the  per- 
suasions of  friends,  and  married.  Their  daughter  was  the  wife  of  Percy  Bysshe 
Shelley.  She  wrote  several  works  of  fiction,  the  only  one  of  which  that  is  not  quite 
forgotten  is  "  Frankenstein."  f  Although  he  continued  to  adore  Reason  all  his  life, 
his  conduct  was  not  so  offensive  as  to  forbid  occasional  association  with  good  men 
like  Coleridge,  and  genial  men  like  Lamb.  In  person  he  was  remarkably  sedate  and 
solemn,  resembling  in  dress  and  manner  a  Dissenting  minister  rather  than  the 
advocate  of  "free-thought"  in  all  things — religious,  moral,  social,  and  intellectual; 
he  was  short  and  stout ;  his  clothes  loosely  and  carelessly  put  on,  and  usually  old 
and  worn ;  his  hands  were  generally  in  his  pockets  ;  he  had  a  remarkably  large, 
bald  head,  and  a  weak  voice ;  seeming  generally  half  asleep  when  he  walked,  and 
even  when  he  talked.  Few  who  saw  this  man  of  calm  exterior,  quiet  manners,  and 
inexpressive  features,  could  have  believed  him  to  have  originated  three  romances  — 
"Falkland,"  "Caleb  Williams,"  and  "St.  Leon" — not  yet  forgotten  because  of 
their  terrible  excitements — and  the  work,  "Political  Justice,"  which  for  a  time 
created  a  sensation  that  was  a  fear  in  every  state  of  Europe. :]: 

Eventually  he  obtained  a  sinecure  in  the  Exchequer ;  and  on  a  comforting 
stipend  of  £200  a  year  he  passed  the  later  years  of  his  life.  He  died  in  1836,  in  the 
eighty-first  year  of  his  age,  and  was  buried  in  Cripplegate  Churchyard. 

Lamb  called  him  "a  good-natured  heathen."  Southey  said  of  him,  in  1797, 
"  He  has  large  noble  eyes,  and  a  nose — oh  !  most  abominable  nose  ;  "  and  he  is 
thus  pictured  by  Talfourd  : — "  The  disproportion  of  a  frame,  which,  low  of  stature, 
was  surmounted  by  a  massive  head  which  might  befit  a  presentable  giant,  was 
rendered  almost  imperceptible,  not  by  any  vivacity  of  expression  (for  his  coun- 
tenance was  rarely  lighted  up  by  the  deep-seated  genius  within),  but  by  a  gracious 
suavity  of  manner  which  many  '  a  fine  old  English  gentleman  '  might  have  envied." 
Hay  don  tells  us  that,  in  1822,  Godwin  was  "  in  distress,"  "  turned  out  of  his  house 
and  business,  and  threatened  with  the  seizure  of  all  he  possessed  in  the  way  of  stock 

*  He  kept  his  shop  under  the  name  of  Edward  Baldwin ;  assuredly,  if  it  had  been  kept  in  his  own,  he  would 
have  had  few  customeis,  for  his  published  opinions  had  excited  general  hostility,  to  say  the  least. 

+  "  Godwin  had  Mary  Wolstoncroft  for  his  wife,  Mi's.  Shelley  for  his  daughter,  and  the  immortal  SheUey  as  his 
son-in-law." — Talfoukd. 

t  His  "  Polilical  Justice  "  is  now  forgotten ;  but  "  it  carried  one  single  shock  into  the  bosom  of  English  society, 
like  that  from  the  electric  blow  of  the  gymnotus."— De  Q,uincey. 


and  furniture."  Lamb  and  others  made  a  subscription  for  him  ;  and  among  the 
subscribers  was  Walter  Scott,  who  subscribed  anonymously,  as  "he  dissented  from 
Mr.  Godwin's  theories  of  poUtics  and  morality,  although  an  admirer  of  his  genius." 

How  very  different  in  all  respects  was  that  other  companion — "  the  friend  indeed  " 
— of  Charles  Lamb — Thomas  Noon  Talfoued  !  *  Tender,  suave,  and  eloquent ;  a 
liberal  and  enlightened  lawyer ;  a  graceful  yet  lofty  poet ;  with  charity  for  all, 
sympathy  for  all,  and  help  for  all — wherever  help  was  needed. 

He  made  his  way  by  force  of  genius,  aided  by  high  integrity,  to  the  Bench ;  and 
died  a  Judge  of  the  Court  of  Common  Pleas.  He  was  one  of  the  few  examples  of  a 
lawyer  in  full  practice  pursuing  a  successful  career  as  an  author ;  one  from  whom  no 
penalty  was  exacted,  although,  no  doubt,  he  did  often 

"  Pen  a  sonnet  when  he  should  engross." 

His  manners  were  peculiarly  bland  and  gentle  ;  he  had  a  calm  but  expressive  coun- 
tenance ;  and  he  was  obviously  a  man  whom  those  who  knew  must  love.  As  a  poet, 
his  reputation  rests  on  his  tragedy  of  Ion.  He  was  the  friend  of  many  literary 
persons,  and  often  their  counsellor.  For  some  years  he  represented  Reading  in  Par- 
liament, and  died  universally  esteemed  and  respected. 

Miss  Mitford,  who  knew  him  when  a  youth,  prophesied  his  after  fame.  Writing 
to  one  of  her  friends,  she  said  of  him  : — "You  should  know  that  he  has  the  very 
great  advantage  of  having  nothing  to  depend  upon  but  his  own  talents  and  industry ; 
and  those  talents  are,  I  assure  you,  of  the  very  highest  order.  I  know  nothing  so 
eloquent  as  his  conversation — so  powerful,  so  full ;  passing  with  equal  ease  from  the 
plainest  detail  to  the  loftiest  and  most  sustained  flights  of  imagination ;  heaping,  with 
unrivalled  fluency  of  words  and  ideas,  image  upon  image,  and  illustration  upon  illus- 
tration.    Never  was  conversation  so  dazzling,  so  glittering." 

Among  the  friends  of  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  and  Lamb  at  the  close  of  the  last 
century  was  John  Thelwall,  who  had  been  tried  for  high  treason,  in  1794,  with 
Hardy  and  Home  Tooke.  I  knew  him  in  1816,  in  Bristol,  while  I  was  spending 
my  school  holidays  there.  He  was  delivering  lectures  on  Elocution  in  that  city.  I 
recall  him  as  a  man  of  small  and  delicate  form,  but  of  remarkable  energy,  though 
aged  then  ;  in  person  small,  compact,  muscular,  with  a  head  denoting  indomitable 
resolution,  and  features  deeply  furrowed  by  ardent  workings  of  the  mind.  He  had 
lost  his  teeth,  which  dental  surgery  at  that  day  could  not  replace  ;  yet  he  spoke  with 
much  point  and  fervour,  and  was  singularly  graceful  in  movement — having  the 
aspect  and  manner  of  a  perfect  gentleman,  although  brought  up  at  "a  tailor's 
board  " — as  he  stood  and  addressed  the  audience,  habited  in  pantaloons,  the  fashion 
of  the  period,  and  a  short  coat  of  a  make  then  novel.  Wordsworth,  who  knew  and 
respected  him,  described  him    as  "  a   man  of  extraordinary  talent,  an   affectionate 

*  Talfourd  was  one  of  the  executors  of  Lamb.  He  fii-st  published  "  Letters  and  a  Sketch  of  his  Life,"  and 
twelve  yeirs  afieiwards,  "  Final  Memorials  of  Charles  Lamb."  The  former  he  dedicated  to  Mary  Anne  Lamb;  the 
latter  to  William  Wordsworth. 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT.  65 


husband,  and  a  good,  father ;  "  and  adds — "Though  brought  up  in  the  city  at  a 
tailor's  board,  he  was  truly  sensible  of  the  beauty  of  natural  objects." 


There  was  another  man  of  mark  whom  I  met  occasionally  when  it  was  my 
privilege  to  sit  among  the  great,  whom  it  is  now  my  higher  privilege  to  portray — • 
William  Hazlitt.  His  grandson,  one  of  the  Registrars  in  the  Court  of  Bankruptcy, 
has  published  two  large  volumes  of  his  biography  and  correspondence.  He  was  of 
Irish  descent — his  father  was  a  Unitarian  minister^ — and  he  was  born  at  Maidstone 
in  1778.  He  was  designed  for  the  ministry,  but  "  took"  early  to  art,  and  painted 
some  portraits — learning  enough,  at  least,  to  give  value  to  his  art- criticisms.  His 
profession  was  purely  that  of  a  man  of  letters,  "  depending  on  his  literary  earnings 
for  subsistence  to  the  last."     He  died  in  London  in  1830,  at  the  age  of  fifty-two. 

He  was  a  reformer  of  the  old  school ;  more  than  that,  indeed — he  was  a 
democrat,  a  hater  of  authorities,  and  anything  but  a  lover  of  his  native  land,  the 
very  opposite  of  some  of  the  friends  who  cheered  and  helped  him  on  his  way 
through  life.  His  admiration  of  the  first  Napoleon  amounted  almost  to  insanity  ; 
even  generous  Talfourd  describes  him  as  "  staggering  under  the  blow  of  Waterloo, 
and  hardly  able  to  forgive  the  valour  of  the  conquerors."  He  styles  him,  however, 
"the  great  critic  and  thinker."  His  Lectures  on  the  Poets  and  his  Essays  on  Art 
are  full  of  valuable  knowledge,  and  may  be  studied  to-day  with  profit  and  pleasure ; 
while  his  dramatic  criticisms  may  still  be  read  with  delight,  although  the  actors, 
without  an  exception,  are  all  gone. 

I  remember  him  as  a  little,  mean-looking,  unprepossessing  man  ;  but  I  am  very 
unwilling  to  accept  Haydon's  estimate  of  him — "A  singular  compound  of  malice, 
candour,  cowardice,  genius,  purity,  vice,  democracy,  and  conceit."  Such  a  man 
could  not  have  obtained  this  testimony  from  Charles  Lamb  ;  and  no  man  knew  him 
better  than  did  the  gentle  and  genial  essayist  : — "  I  should  belie  my  own  conscience 
if  I  said  less  than  that  I  think  W.  H.  to  be,  in  his  natural  and  healthy  state,  one  of 
the  wisest  and  finest  spirits  breathing.  So  far  from  being  ashamed  of  that  intimacy 
which  was  betwixt  us,  it  is  my  boast  that  I  was  able  for  so  many  years  to  have  pre- 
served it  entire  ;  and  I  think  I  shall  go  to  my  grave  without  finding,  or  expecting  to 
find,  such  another  companion."  Yet  De  Quincey  says  of  him—"  He  was  splenetic, 
and  more  than  peevish ;  "  but  "the  soil  in  his  brain  was  of  a  volcanic  fertility;" 
"he  smiled  upon  no  man  :  "  "his  misanthropy  was  constitutional  ;  "  "  there  was  a 
dark  sinister  gloom  for  ever  upon  his  countenance  ; "  "it  seemed  to  me  that 
he  hated,  even  more  than  enemies,  those  whom  custom  obliged  him  to  call  his 
friends." 

■  He  was  of  slight  make— thin,  indeed  ;  but  his  frame  was  "  wiry  and  compact." 
He  is  thus  described  by  Gilfillan  :— "  His  face  was  pale  and  earnest,  almost  to 
haggardness,  yet  finely  formed ;  his  eye  eager,  like  that  of  one  seeking  to  see,  rather 
than  seeing  into  the  strange  mystery  of  being  around  him  ;  his  brow  elevated  ;  his 
hair  dark  and  abundant."     He  had  a  lonely  life  :  few  to  sustain,  and  none  to  cheer 

r 


him;  none  of  the  sweet  amenities  of  home.*  As  a  professed  critic  he  had  the 
common  lot — few  friends,  many  foes.  He  had  "  restless  and  stormy  passions  " — so, 
at  least,  say  those  who  knew  him  best — and  these  were  neither  subdued  nor  con- 
trolled by  any  Faith  that  nourishes  and  strengthens  Hope  and  Charity. 

Only  once  I  saw  De  Quincey — another  of  the  band  who  occasionally  made 
glorious  the  evenings  of  Charles  Lamb  in  Mitre  Court.  That  remarkable  man, 
whose  story  has  been  often  and  fully  told,  is  thus  described  by  Gilfillan  : — "A  little, 
pale-faced,  woe-begone,  and  attenuated  man,  with  a  small  head,  a  peculiar  but  not 
large  brow,  and  lustreless  eyes  ;  yet  one  who  would  pour  into  your  ear  a  stream  of 
learning,  and  talk  like  one  inspired — or  mad."  His  death  was  somewhat  sudden. 
He  had  a  fall  that  induced  dangerous  symptoms,  and  on  the  27th  December,  1834, 
he  died  at  Edmonton,  in  the  fifty-ninth  year  of  his  age. 

I  knew  also  in  the  year  1824 — 5,  and  more  than  once  visited  him  in  his  Library 
in  Queen  Square,  Westminster,  that  very  venerable  gentleman — Jeremy  Bentham. 
He  died  in  1832,  at  the  age  of  eighty,  having  been  called  to  the  Bar  in  1772.  His 
head  was  singularly  fine — grand,  indeed,  with  white  flowing  locks  that  hung  grace- 
fully over  his  shoulders,  with  a  pleasant  yet  strongly  intellectual  countenance,  that 
conveyed  the  idea  of  habitual  cheerfulness,  and  a  smile  that  seemed  perpetual,  and 
indicated  perfect  benevolence — of  mind  and  heart.  His  bust  has  been  often  mistaken 
for  that  of  Franklin,  whom,  no  doubt,  he  much  resembled.  Hazlitt  has  said  of  him, 
"  He  lived  like  an  anchorite  in  his  cell,  reducing  law  to  a  system,  and  the  mind  of 
man  to  a  machine ;  "  "  overlaying  his  natural  humour,  sense,  spirit,  and  style  with 
the  dust  and  cobwebs  of  an  obscure  solitude."  It  is  a  far  higher  estimate — that 
which  his  intimate  friend  Sir  John  Bowring  gives  of  the  powerful  intellect  and 
generous  sympathies  of  one  of  the  most  remarkable  men  of  the  century — of  the 
eighteenth  rather  than  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

And  now  to  the  long  list  must  be  added  the  name  of  John  Bowring,  so  long 
known  as  Dr.  Bowring,  and  subsequently  by  his  knight-title,  "  Sir  John."  He  was 
knighted  for  services  in  China,  where  he  had  a  lucrative  appointment,  given  to  him 
by  his  friends  the  Whigs,  to  whom  he  had  long  been  a  very  useful  servant.  I  knew 
him  so  far  back  as  1828,  and  esteemed  him  highly.  As  a  politician  he  was  largely 
in  advance  of  his  time.  He  had  great  energy,  industry,  and  ability,  and  amply  earned 
the  honours  to  which  he  attained. 

These  are  but  slight  sketches  of  some  of  the  friends  or  associates  of  Charles 
Lamb,  but  they  may  not  be  regarded  as  out  of  place  when  "companioning"  a 
portrait  of  gentle,  genial  "  Elia." 

*  Talfouid  relates  this  anecdote  of  the  honour  of  Jeffrey  :— "  V^en  Hazlitt  was  on  his  death-bed,  and  '  appre^ 
hensive  of  the  future,'  he  dictated  a  brief  and  peremptory  letter  to  the  Editor  of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  requiring  a 
considerable  remittance  to  which  he  had  no  claim  but  that  of  former  remunerated  services,  which  the  friend  who 
obeyed  his  bidding  feared  might  excite  displeasure.  But  he  mistook  Francis  Jeffrey.  The  sum  demanded  was 
received  by  return  of  post,  with  anxious  wishes  for  Hazlitt's  recovery,  just  too  late  for  him  to  understand  his  error." 


HANNAH  MOEE. 

N  the  year  1763  a  lecturer  on  rhetoric  visited  the  city  of  Bristol  during 
a  professional  tour.  He  was  accompanied  by  a  youth,  his  son  :  that 
youth  was  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan.  Among  his  frequent  auditors 
was  a  young  girl — Hannah  More.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  writing  a  far-off 
history,  for  she  conversed  with  me  concerning  the  circumstance  to  which 
I  am  referring,  and  which  occurred  upwards  of  a  century  ago.  Her 
name  is,  indeed,  so  linked  with  the  past  as  to  seem  to  belong  to  a  remote 
generation ;  for  when  I  knew  her,  in  1825,  she  had  reached  the  patri- 
archal age  of  fourscore,  and  her  talk  was  of  the  historic  men  and  women 
who  had  been  her  associates  :  Samuel  Johnson,  Edmund  Burke,  David 
Garrick ;  Bishops  Porteus,  Percy,  Newton,  and  Watson ;  Mackenzie,  Boswell,  Sir 
William  Jones,  Southey,  Chalmers,  Wilberforce,  Gibbon,  De  Lolme,  John  Locke, 
Magee,  Mrs.  Montague,  and  many  others, — famous  men  and  women  of  her  time,  who 
honoured  and  loved  her,  as  "  a  pure  and  humble,  yet  zealous  philanthropist."  Her 
writings  were  admired  by  them  all — by  the  religious  and  the  sceptic,  by  the  philo- 
sopher and  the  frivolous  worldling;  all  found  in  them  something  to  admire,  and 
nothing  to  condemn  ;  for  her  charity  was  universal.  They  were  comprehended  alike 
by  the  sagacious  and  the  simple ;  were  read  and  respected  equally  by  the  greatly 

p  2 


learned  and  the  comparatively  ignorant.  Prodigious,  therefore,  was  the  influence 
they  exercised  on  her  age.  She  is  emphatically  foremost  among  those  to  whom  the 
poet  refers,  who, 

"  Departing',  leave  behind  them 

Footprints  on  the  sands  of  Time." 

Yes  !  I  seem  indeed  to  be  writing  a  far-off  history  when  I  recall  to  memory  one  who 
is  of  the  eighteenth,  and  not  of  the  nineteenth,  century.  She  had  sat  for  her  portrait 
to  Sir  Joshua  Keynolds  when  the  artist  was  in  his  zenith,  and  she  placed  in  my  hands 
a  playbill  of  her  tragedy  of  Percy,  in  which  David  Garrick  sustained  the  leading  part. 
The  painter  and  the  actor  were  her  dear  friends. 

I  can  but  faintly  picture  now  that  venerable  lady  who  more  than  fifty  years  ago 
received  and  greeted  us  with  cordial  warmth  in  her  graceful  drawing-room  at  Barley 
Wood ;  directed  our  attention  to  the  records  she  had  kept  of  glorious  friendships 
with  the  truly  great ;  spoke  with  humble  and  holy  pride  of  her  labours  through  a 
very  long  life  ;  impressed  upon  our  then  fresh  minds  the  wisdom  of  virtue,  the  incon- 
ceivable blessing  of  Christian  training  and  Christian  teaching,  and  hailed  us  with 
encouraging  hope  and  affectionate  sympathy,  just  as  we  were  entering  the  path  she 
had  trodden  to  its  close, — she  who  had  been  a  burning  and  a  shining  light  before  we 
were  born. 

Her  form  was  small  and  slight :  her  features  wrinkled  with  age ;  but  the  burden 
of  eighty  years  had  not  impaired  her  gracious  smile,  nor  lessened  the  fire  of  her  eyes, 
the  clearest,  the  brightest,  and  the  most  searching  I  have  ever  seen.  They  were 
singularly  dark — positively  black  they  seemed  as  they  looked  forth  among  carefally- 
trained  tresses  of  her  own  white  hair ;  and  absolutely  sparkled  while  she  spoke  of 
those  of  whom  she  was  the  venerated  link  between  the  present  and  the  long  past. 
Her  manner  on  entering  the  room,  while  conversing,  and  at  our  departure,  was  posi- 
tively sprightly  ;  she  tripped  about  from  console  to  console,  from  window  to  window, 
to  show  us  some  gift  that  bore  a  name  immortal,  some  cherished  reminder  of  other 
days — almost  of  another  world,  certainly  of  another  age  ;  for  they  were  memories  of 
those  whose  deaths  were  registered  before  the  present  century  had  birth. 

This  is  Mrs.  Hall's  portrait  of  her  :— 

"Her  brow  was  full  and  well  sustained,  rather  than  what  would  he  called  fine:  from  the 
manner  in  which  her  hair  was  dressed,  its  formation  was  distinctly  visible ;  and  though  her  eyes 
were  half  closed,  her  countenance  was  more  tranquil,  more  sweet,  more  holy — for  it  had  a  holy 
expression — than  when  those  deep  intense  ej^es  were  looking:  you  through  and  through.  Small, 
and  shrunk,  and  aged  as  she  was,  she  conveyed  to  us  no  idea  of  feebleness.  She  looked,  even 
then,  a  woman  whose  character,  combining  sufficient  thought  and  wisdom,  as  well  as  dignity  and 
spirit,  could  analyse  and  exhibit,  in  language  suited  to  the  intellect  of  the  people  of  England,  the 
evils  and  dangers  of  revolutionary  principles.  Her  voice  had  a  pleasant  tone,  and  her  manner 
was  quite  devoid  of  affectation  or  dictation  :  she  spoke  as  one  expecting  a  reply,  and  by  no  means 
like  an  oracle.  And  those  bright  immortal  eyes  of  hers — not  wearied  by  looking  at  the  world  for 
more  than  eighty  years,  but  clear  and  far-seeing  then — laughing,  too,  when  she  spoke  cheerfully, 
not  as  authors  are  believed  to  speak, — 

'In  measured  pompous  tones,' — 

but  like  a  dear  matronly  dame,  who  had  especial  care  and  tenderness  towards  young  women.  It 
is  impossible  to  remember  how  it  occurred,  hut  in  reference  to  some  observation  I  had  made,  she 


HANNAH  MORE.  69 


turned  briskly  round  and  exclaimed,  '  Controversy  hardens  the  heart  and  sours  the  temper  : 
never  dispute  with  your  husband,  young  lady ;  tell  him  what  you  think,  and  leave  it  to  him  to 
fructify.'  "* 

She  was  clad,  I  well  remember,  in  a  dress  of  rich  pea-green  silk._  It  was  an  odd 
whim,  and  contrasted  somewhat  oddly  with  her  patriarchal  age  and  venerable  coun- 
tenance, yet  was  in  harmony  with  the  youth  of  her  step,  and  her  unceasing  vivacity, 
as  she  laughed  and  chatted,  chatted  and  laughed ;  her  voice  strong  and  clear  as  that 
of  a  girl,  and  her  animation  as  full  of  life  and  vigour  as  it  might  have  been  in  her 
spring-time. 

She  flourished  at  a  period  when  religion  was  little  more  than  a  sound  in  England  ; 


when  the  clergy  of  the  English  Church  were  virtuous  only  in  exceptional  cases,  and 
the  flocks  committed  by  the  State  to  their  charge  were  left  in  as  utter  ignorance  of 
social  and  religious  duties  as  if  they  had  been  really  but  sheep  gone  astray ;  when 
France  was  rendering  impiety  sacred,  and  raising  altars  for  the  worship  of  Reason  ; 
and  when  in  England  there  were  vile  copyists — professional  propagators  of  sedition 
and  blasphemy  under  the  names  of  Liberty  and  Fraternity. 

At   that   terrible    time    Hannah  More  came    out  in  her  strength.     Her  tracts, 


'  Pilgi'images  to  English  Shrines,"  by  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall-.    London  :  Virtue.    1853. 


MEMORIES. 


pamphlets,  poems,  and  books  aided  largely  to  stem  the  torrent  which  for  awhile 
threatened  to  overwhelm  all  of  good  and  just  in  these  kingdoms.  They  inculcated 
as  an  imperative  duty  the  education  of  the  people,  stimulated  gospel  teaching  by 
persuasions  and  threats  addressed  to  those  who  had  been  appointed,  at  least  by  man, 
to  the  office  of  the  ministry,  and  stirred  up  to  be  her  helpers  men  and  women  of 
every  class,  from  the  humblest  to  the  highest,  from  the  cottage  to  the  throne.  She  did 
her  work  so  wisely  as  seldom  to  excite  either  prejudice  or  hostility.  Those  who 
might  have  been  the  bitter  opponents  of  men  so  occupied  were  tolerant  of  zeal  in  a 
woman,  and  it  cannot  be  questioned  that  her  sex  sheltered  her  from  assailants,  while 
it  empowered  her  to  make  her  way  where  men  would  have  failed  of  entrance. 

She  was  not  bigoted.  There  was  in  her  nothing  of  coarse  sectarianism  opposing 
scepticism  in  phraseology  harsh  and  uncompromising.  Her  mind  had  ever  a  leaning, 
and  her  language  always  a  tendency,  to  the  Charity  that  suffereth  long  and  is  kind. 
What  was  meant  for  mankind  she  never  gave  up  to  party  ;  though  a  thorough 
member  of  the  Church  of  England,  she  saw  no  evil  motive  in  those  who  counselled 
withdrawal  from  it ;  though,  with  her,  Faith  was  the  paramount  blessing  of  life,  and 
the  first  and  great  commandment  Duty  to  God,  she  inculcated  all  the  duties  of  that 
which  is  next  to  it,  "Love  thy  neighbour  as  thyself" — that  which  has  been  well 
termed  "  the  eleventh  commandment  ;  "  nor  had  she  any  value  for  the  religion  that 
consisted  mainly  of  idle  or  listless  observance — cold  adherence  to  outward  formalities 
— nor  any  trust  in  that  dependence  on  Providence  which  is  but  a  mere  admission  of 
belief.  There  was  no  taint  of  asceticism  in  her  piety — no  abnegation  of  enjoyment, 
under  the  idea  that  to  be  cheerful  and  happy  is  to  displease  Grod.  Her  religion  was 
practical ;  she  relished  many  of  the  pleasures  which  the  worldly  consider  chief,  and 
the  "  rigidly  righteous  "  ignore  as  sinful.  She  might,  indeed — and  it  is  probable 
often  did — apply  to  herself  that  line  in  the  epigram  of  Dr.  Young  : — 

"I  live  in  pleasure  while  I  live  to  thee." 

In  all  her  thoughts,  words,  and  works,  she  was  in  the  service  of  One  who 

' '  Must  delight  in  virtue, 
And  that  which  he  delights  in  must  be  happy." 

She  especially  laboured  to  give  religion  to  the  young  as  a  source  of  enjoyment  that 
in  no  degree  diminished  happiness,  and  was  constant  in  imploring  youth  not  to  post- 
pone the  blessing  until  age  had  rendered  pleasure  distasteful.  "It  is,"  she  wrote, 
"a  wretched  sacrifice  to  the  God  of  heaven  to  present  Him  with  the  remnants  of 
decayed  appetites,  and  the  leavings  of  extinguished  passions." 

While  she  never  sought  to  lead  woman  out  of  her  sphere,  and  is  at  once  an 
example  and  a  warning  to  the  "  strong-minded,"  she  sought  by  all  right  means  to 
elevate,  and  succeeded  in  elevating,  her  sex.  In  a  word,  her  mission  was  to  augment 
the  sum  of  human  happiness  by  wholesome  stimulants  to  virtue,  order,  industry,  as 
their  own  rewards,  but  of  infinitely  higher  value  as  the  preliminaries  to  a  state  for 
which  hfe  is  but  a  preparation. 

Her  lessons  were  more  especially  impressive  to  those  who  learn  that,  in  widening 
the  sphere  of  their  duties,  they  do  not  abridge  those  that  essentially  appertain  to 


i 


home.  In  her  case- there  was  comparative  release  from  household  cares,  but  she 
perpetually  taught  that  there  can  be  no  excuse  for  their  neglect,  by  any  labour  of 
mmd  or  pen,  by  any  occupation  that  is  suggested  by  philanthropy  or  rehgion. 

It  was  from  this  cause  chiefly  that  she  excited  no  suspicion.  If  men  often 
grudgingly  and  ungraciously  admit  female  talent,  it  is  seldom  from  any  principle  of 
jealousy  ;  it  is  rather  a  dread  that  it  will  abstract  from  the  power  of  the  domestic 
virtues,  rendering  woman  less  the  deity  of  home,  and  dwarfing  her  as  a  mother,  a 
daughter,  a  sister,  or  a  wife.  In  the  far-off  time  when  Hannah  More  flourished, 
and  to  which  our  memory  takes  us  back,  that  dread  was  very  generally  felt.  There 
are   now  so  many  examples  of  genius  in  woman,  with  its  ample  exercise  and  full 

employment, — which  in  no  way  imply  exemption  from  her  leading  business  in  life, 

that  alarm  on  this  head  has  much,  if  not  entirely,  subsided.  To  teach  that  lesson 
was  one  of  the  many  good  works  of  Hannah  More.*  She  was,  therefore,  one  of 
those  to  whom  England  owes  much  of  its  greatness ;  and  though  she  has  been  more 
than  forty  years  in  her  grave,  to  utter  a  prayer  of  gratitude  over  it  is  a  duty  that 
any  writer  may  covet. 

My  readers  will  permit  me  to  dwell  somewhat  on  the  privilege  we  have  enjoyed 
in  having  personally  known  this  good  woman.  It  is  indeed  a  happy  memory — that 
which  recalls  the  day  we  passed  with  her  at  Barley  Wood. 

Hannah  More  was  born  in  the  hamlet  of  Fishponds,  in  the  parish  of  Stapleton, 
about  four  miles  from  Bristol,  on  the  2nd  of  February,  1745,  more  than  one  hundred 
and  thirty  years  ago  !  Her  father — a  man,  as  she  tells  us,  of  "  piety  and  learning  " 
— inherited  ''great  expectations;"  but,  reduced  to  a  comparatively  humble  position, 
he  became  master  of  the  Free  School  at  Fishponds,  married,  and  had  five  daughters, 
all  good  and  gifted  women,  of  whom  Hannah  was  the  fourth.  In  1757  they  opened 
a  boarding-school  at  Trinity  Square,  Bristol,  where  Hannah,  though  but  twelve  years 
old,  assisted.  Their  school  flourished.  Hannah,  at  seventeen,  produced  a  poem, — 
"  The  Search  after  Happiness,"  and  continued  to  write — fugitive  verses  principally 
— until  her  fame  was  established  by  the  production  of  that  which  is  considered  the 
loftiest  efi'ort  of  genius — a  tragedy. 

In  1777  her  tragedy  of  Percy  was  performed  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  Garrick 
Avriting  both  the  prologue  and  the  epilogue,  and  sustaining  the  principal  part  in  the 
play.  Afterwards  she  wrote  other  plays,  but  their  success  was,  by  comparison, 
limited.  A  friendship  with  the  great  actor  then  commenced,  which  endured  till  his 
death,  and  was  continued  to  his  widow,  until  in  1822  she  also  died  at  the  patriarchal 
age  of  ninety-one. 

In  this  age,  when  female  talent  is  so  rife, — when,  indeed,  it  is  not  too  much  to 
say  of  women  that  they  are,  in  many  ways,  maintaining  their  right  to  equality  with 
men  in  reference  to  the  productions  of  mind, — it  is  difiicult  to  comprehend  the 
popularity,  almost  amounting  to  adoration,  with  which  a  woman-writer  was  regarded 


*  There  have  been,  and  are,  many  literary  women  who  have  illustrated  this  position — that  genius  is  in  no  degree 
incompatible  with  the  ordinary  duties  of  life :  foremost  among  them  was  Maria  Edgeworth,  of  whom  we  shall  have 
to  write.  Indeed,  we  believe  the  female  authors  who  neglect  the  home  occupations,  out  of  which  only  can  arise  the 
happiness  of  home,  are  but  exceptions  to  a  general  rule. 


72  MEMORIES. 


little  more  than  half  a  century  ago.  Mediocrity  was  magnified  into  genius,  and  to 
have  printed  a  book,  or  to  have  written  even  a  tolerable  poem,  was  a  passport  into 
the  very  highest  society.  Nearly  all  the  contemporaries  of  Hannah  More  are  for- 
gotten ;  their  reputation  was  for  a  day  ;  hers  has  stood  the  test  of  time.*  She 
receives  honour  and  homage  from  the  existing  generation,  and  will  "  live  for  aye  in 
Fame's  eternal  volume." 

But  her  renown  has  by  no  means  arisen  from  her  poems,  lyrical  or  dramatic ; 
from  her  tales,  social  or  moral ;  from  her  tracts,  abundant  as  they  are  in  sound 
practical  teachings  ;  from  her  collected  writings  in  eight  thick  volumes  :  it  is  founded 
on  a  more  solid  basis.  Many  of  her  books  were  produced  "  for  occasions,"  and  are 
in  oblivion  with  the  causes  that  gave  them  birth.  "  Coelebs  in  Search  of  a  Wife," 
her  only  novel,  yet  survives.  It  appeared  in  1808,  and  enjoyed  a  popularity  that 
would  seem  prodigious  even  now,  for  within  one  year  it  passed  through  twelve 
editions,  and  her  share  of  the  profit  exceeded  two  thousand  pounds.  It  was  written 
during  a  period  of  intense  bodily  suffering.  "Never,"  she  says,  "was  more  pain 
bound  up  in  two  volumes."  Although  she  lived  to  be  so  very  aged,  she  had  ever 
"a  peculiarly  delicate  constitution,"  "rarely  experienced  immunity  from  actual 
disease,"  having,  as  she  states  in  one  of  her  letters,  "  suff'ered  under  more  than 
twenty  mortal  disorders."  She  might  have  been  pardoned  if  her  life  had  been 
passed  in  listless  ease  and  profitless  inaction ;  but  her  active  industry  was  absolutely 
wonderful ;  her  literary  labour  was  done  in  retirement,  apart  from  the  trouble  and 
turmoil  of  the  busy  world — retirement  that  was  but  the  "bracing  of  herself"  for 
work — such  work  as  was  true  pleasure. 

The  district  in  which  Providence  had  placed  her  in  her  youth  was  as  "  benighted" 
as  could  have  been  a  jungle  in  Cafire-land;  the  people  not  only  knew  not  God — 
they  were  utterly  ignorant  of  moral  and  social  duties,  and  ignored  all  responsibility 
in  thought,  word,  and  deed.  In  that  moral  desert  Hannah  More  and  her  sisters  set 
to  work.  The  inevitable  opposition  was  encountered.  Neighbouring  farmers  had 
no  idea  of  encouraging  education,  or  of  tolerating  religion  among  the  outcasts  who 
did  their  daily  work.  The  one,  they  argued,  made  them  discontented,  the  other 
idle  ;  while  the  clergy  considered  such  teachers  as  mere  poachers  on  the  barren 
tract  they  called  theirs.  Not  only  thus  did  opposition  come  ;  even  the  parents,  in 
many  cases,  refused  to  send  their  children  to  school,  unless  they  were  paid  for  doing 
so  ;  f  and  hard  indeed  seemed  the  toil  to  which  these  good  sisters  were  devoted ; 
but  they  persevered,  God  helping  them.  Very  soon  schools  were  established,  and 
not  schools  only — the  sick  and  needy  found  ministering  angels  in  these  women,  and 
for  all  their  physical  wants  they  had  comforters.  It  is  only  when  religion  goes  hand 
in  hand  with  charity  that  its  teaching  can  be  effectual  and  its  efi^orts  successful.  The 
philanthropists  who  give  only  tracts  to  feed  the  hungry,  and  printed  books  to  clothe 
the  naked,  work  as  idly  as  those  who  would  reap  the  whirlwind.     They  have  not  the 


*  Her  works  have  been  translated  into  every  European  language,  and  into  some  of  the  languages  of  Asia. 

+  In  Ireland,  very  recently,  much  the  same  feeling  existed.  We  were  present  once  when  a  lady  refused  some 
favour  her  tenant  asked  of  her.  The  woman  made  this  comment :  "  I'm  surprised  at  ye,  my  lady,  that  ye  wouldn't 
give  me  a  small  thing  like  that — after  me  letting  the  children  wear  shoes,  and  sending  them  to  school  to  plase  ye." 


HANNAH  MORE. 


example  of  Hannah  More.  Under  her  system  prejudices  broke  down ;  her  experi- 
ments led  to  undertakings ;  large  institutions  followed  her  small  establishments  for 
the  ailing,  the  ignorant,  or  the  wicked.  The  rich  were  taught  to  care  for  the  poor, 
and  in  that  little  corner  of  England  that  lies  under  the  shadow  of  the  Cheddar  hills 
a  beacon  was  lit  that  at  once  warned  and  stimulated  the  prosperous.  The  piety  of 
Hannah  More  was  "  practical  piety,"  and  to  her  must  be  assigned  much  of  the 
distinction  this  kingdom  derives  from  that  all- glorious  sentence  now  so  often  read  in 
so  many  parts  of  it — a  sentence  that,  beyond  all  others  in  our  language,  makes,  as  it 
ought  to  make,  an  Englishman  proud — 

"  SUPPOETED   BY  VoLUXTABY  COKTBIBUTIONg." 

I  have  been  tempted  to  wander  somewhat  from  the  theme  more  immediately  in 


<'^;^i4/ 


BAELBr  WOOD. 


hand.  The  sisters  kept  their  school  in  Bristol  for  thirty-two  years  ;  but  Hannah, 
though  nominally  one  of  them,  had  other  vocations,  not  the  least  of  which  was  the 
society  she  loved,  and  in  which  she  was  received  Avith  honour,  homage,  and  affection. 
After  residing  some  years  at  Cowslip  Green,  she  built  (in  1800)  her  cottage  at  Barley 
Wood,  near  the  village  of  Wrington,  eight  miles  from  Bristol.  The  site  was  happily 
chosen,  commanding  extensive  views,  in  a  healthy  locality  overlooking  a  luxuriant 
vale  ;  many  cottages  and  hamlets  within  ken.  During  the  thirty  years  of  her  occu- 
pancy the  place  attained  high  rank  in  rural  beauty ;  walks,  terraces,  lawns,  and 
flower-beds  soon  were  graces  of  the  domain.  She  lived  to  see  the  saplings  she  had 
planted  become  trees  in  which  the  thrush  and  blackbird  built,  and  where  nightingales 
sung.  In  the  grounds  was  an  urn,  on  a  pedestal,  inscribed,  "In  grateful  memory 
of  long  and  faithful  friendship,"  to  Beilby  Porteus,  Bishop  of  London.     There  was 


74 


MEMORIES. 


another  to  John  Locke,  and  there  were  others  that  I  have  forgotten.  These 
mementoes  were  skilfully  placed  under  the  shadows  of  umbrageous  trees,  and  beside 
them  were  openings  through  which  were  obtained  charming  views  of  adjacent  scenery. 
Of  these  two  monuments  I  give  engravings. 

Time,  however,  at  length  did  its  work  with  her,  as  with  all.  Though  Barley 
Wood  was  her  own,  it  was  also  the  home  of  her  sisters.  In  1802  they  went  to 
reside  with  her, — and  remained  there  till  death  divided  them,  one  having  previously 
"  gone  hence."  Mary  was  the  first  to  go,  dying  in  1813  ;  in  1817  Sarah  followed, 
and  in  1819  Martha  left  earth.  Hannah  writes,  "  I  must  finish  my  journey  alone." 
As  Bowles  wrote  of  her,  there  she 


"  Waits  meekly  at  the  gate  of  Paradise, 
Smiling  at  Time."         ' 


Her  last  work  was  on  a  congenial  theme,—'*  The  Spirit  of  Prayer."  With  that 
book  her  literary  labours  closed.  She  was  then  fourscore  years  old  ;  thenceforward 
she  put  aside  the  pen  ;  but  her  doors  were  opened  to  friends,  and  sometimes  to 
strangers,  who  desired  to  accord  her  homage  and  honour,  or  to  offer  tributes  of 
affection. 

When  she  was  left  "  alone  "—the  last  of  all  her  family— at  Barley  Wood,  she  had 
eight  servants,  some  of  whom  had  lived  long  with  her  and  her  sisters,  and,  naturally, 
had  her  confidence.  That  confidence  they  betrayed,  not  only  wasting  her  substance, 
but  degrading  her  peaceful  and  hallowed  home  by  orgies  that  brought  shame  to  the 
rural  neighbourhood.  The  venerable  lady  was  necessarily  informed  of  these  "  goings 
on"  in  her  household,  and,  very  reluctantly,  removed  to  Clifton  to  be  near  loving 


i 


HANNAH  MORE. 


and  watchful  friends.  It  was  a  mournful  day,  that  on  which  she  quitted  the  cottage 
endeared  to  her  by  time  and  association.  "  I  am  driven  lilie  Eve  out  of  Paradise,  but 
not  by  angels,"  she  murmured,  as  she  left  the  threshold. 

She  removed  to  4,  Windsor  Terrace,  Clifton,  and  there,  on  the  7th  September 
1833,  she  died, — if  we  are  to  call  that  death  which  was  simply  a  removal  to  a  far 
better  and  more  beautiful  home  than  any  she  had  had  on  earth — "  where  angels  do 
always  behold  the  face  of  my  Father  which  is  in  heaven." 

She  left  a  large  fortune  behind  her.  There  were  few  friends  who  needed,  and  she 
had  no  relatives  ;  her  wealth,  therefore,  went  to  augment  the  funds  of  public  charities 
— principally  those  of  Bristol,  and  there  are  thousands  who  to-day  enjoy  the  blessings 
thus  bequeathed  to  them. 

In  Wrington  Churchyard  repose  the  mortal  remains  of  the  five  sisters.  A  large 
stone  slab,  enclosed  by  an  iron  railing,  covers  the  grave,  and  contains  their  names, 
the  dates  of  their  births,  and  of  their  deaths. 

I  copy  one  of  a  series  of  very  beautiful  sonnets  commemorating  many  phases  and 
incidents  connected  with  the  career  of  Hannah  More,  written  by  her  esteemed  friend 
and  biographer,  the  Rev.  Henry  Thompson  : — 

"  When  every  vernal  hope  and  joy  decays. 

When  Love  is  cold,  and  life  is  little  worth, 

Age  yields  to  Heaven  the  thankless  lees  of  Earth, 
Offering  their  Lord  the  refuse  of  his  days  : 
O  wiser  she,  who  from  the  voice  of  Praise, 

Friendship,  Intelligence,  and  guiltless  Mirth, 

Fled  timely  hither.,  and  this  sylvan  hearth 
Reared  for  an  altar !  not  with  sterile  blaze 
Of  Vestal  fire  one  mystic's  cell  to  light — 

Selfish  devotion  ;  but  its  warmth  to  pour 

Creative  through  the  cold  chaotic  night 
Of  rustic  ignorance ;  thence,  bold,  to  soar 

Through  hall  and  regal  tower  with  radiant  flight, 
Till  peer  and  peasant  bless  the  toils  of  More." 

Her  friend.  Sir  Joshua  Eeynolds,  painted  her  portrait  (it  would  be  interesting  to 
know  where  it  now  is).  "  It  represents  her  small  and  slender  figure  gracefully 
attired ;  the  hands  and  arms  delicately  fine,  the  eyes  large,  dark,  and  lustrous ;  the 
eyebrows  well  marked  and  softly  arched  ;  the  countenance  beaming  with  benevolence 
and  intelligence."*  The  portrait  represented  her  in  her  prime  :  that  of  which  I  give 
an  engraving  at  the  head  of  this  chapter  was  painted  by  Pickersgill  somewhere  about 
the  year  1822,  when  she  had  reached  her  eightieth  year.  She  sat,  however,  to  other 
artists — among  them  Opie,  whose  portrait  is  that  of  a  plain  woman  of  middle  age, 
the  features  illumined  by  the  deep  and  sparkHng  black  eyes  that  had  lost  none  of 
their  briUiancy  when  I  knew  her.  The  autograph  is  copied  from  a  passage  she  wrote 
in  Mrs.  Hall's  Album. 

The  whole  career  of  Mrs.  Hannah  More  is  a  striking  example  of  what  can  be 
effected  by  one  woman — a  woman  neither  high-born,  nor  wealthy,  nor  beautiful,  nor, 
in  what  is  understood  to  constitute  genius,  as  highly  gifted  as  many  others  whose 
names  are  histories.     Her  dramas  have  had  no  sustaining  power  to  keep  the  stage. 


*  I  quote  this  passage  from  a  book—"  The  Literary  Women  of  England,"  by  Jane  WiUiams  (published  in  1 861 ) , 
a  book  far  too  little  known,  for  it  is  full  of  wisdom  and  knowledge,  keenly,  yet  generously  critical,  abounding  in 
sound  sense  thorough  appreciation  of  excellence,  and  manifesting  earnest  advocacy  of  goodness  and  vii-tue. 


?& 


MEMORIES. 


and  her  poems,  as  poems,  are  little  more  than  pleasing  trifles  ;  but  her  "  Cheap 
Kepository,"  her  book  on  "  Female  Education,"  her  "  Thoughts  on  the  Manners  of 
the  Great,"  her  "  Christian  Morals,"  her  "  Spirit  of  Prayer,"  "  Hints  on  the  Education 
of  a  Princess,"  "Character  of  St.  Paul,"  and  her  "Practical  Piety,"  despite  some 
occasional  "  conventionalities,"  are  the  temples  in  which  her  memory  is  enshrined  ; 
and  when  we  recall  the  formation  of  those  Poor  Schools, — when  we  remember  that 
neither  the  time  bestowed  upon  them  nor  upon  her  literary  pursuits  prevented  her 
fulfilling  her  duty  to  the 

"  Great  Father  of  all," 


TUB   GBAYE   OF   HANNAH   UOEE. 


in  whom  "  she  lived,  and  moved,  and  had  her  being," — when  we  learn  how  faithfully 
her  domestic  duties  were  discharged,  while  she  was  the  benefactor  of  the  poor,  the 
instructor  of  the  ignorant, — when  we  remember  what  she  was  to  society,  and  recall 
the  kind,  playful,  unostentatious  womanliness  of  her  nature,  we  do  greatly  rejoice  in 
the  triumph  of  usefulness.  We  gaze  with  reverence  upon  the  clear  beacon -fire  she 
kindled,  so  different  from  the  phantom  lights  that  dazzle  to  betray  ;  and  we  recom- 
mend most  earnestly  to  our  countrywomen  the  study  of  such  a  life  and  its  results — 
happiness  obtained   and   conferred — as   opposed  to  the  malaria  of  those  unhealthy 


ROBERT  HALL. 


influences  which,  born  of  a  degraded  woman  of  genius,  have,  of  late  years,  crawled 
from  France  into  the  literature  of  England. 

It  is,  indeed,  to  be  deplored  that  many  of  the  most  pernicious  books  of  recent 
times  are  the  productions  of  women,  who  have  been  the  advocates  and  propagators 
of  vice,  by  making  it  not  alone  excusable,  but  attractive  ;  teaching  not  only  to 
"  endure,"  but  to  "pity  "  and  to  "  embrace."  How  many  of  the  novels  of  modern 
writers  are  utterly  shameless  and  shameful !  They  may,  and  do,  charm  by  exciting 
incident  and  story ;  but  in  striving  to  render  fascinating  bad  examples  of  the  sex, 
they  corrupt  the  very  fountain-head  of  society,  and  taint  the  natures  of  those  who 
are  to  be  the  wives  and  mothers  of  the  future. 

Unhappily,  such  books  are  greedily  read,  and  do  not  fail  to  find  their  way  into 
the  hands  of  the  young.  It  is  impossible  to  overrate  the  mischief  they  do  :  "just  as 
the  twig  is  bent ;"  the  subtle  poison  taints  the  constitution  ;  and  though  it  may  be 
suspended  in  the  system,  it  is  sure  in  time  to  show  its  effect  in  diseased  morals  and 
distempered  brain. 

Every  printed  word  is  a  planted  seed  that  must  spring  up  a  weed  or  flower ; 
and  the  author  who  either  ignores  responsibility  or  is  indifferent  to  it  is  like  the 
child  who 

"  Flings  about  fire, 
And  tells  you  'tis  all  but  ia  sport." 

We  have,  it  is  true,  the  antidote  as  well  as  the  bane  ;  and,  thank  God,  there  are 
women,  not  a  few,  who  work  with  the  pen,  in  fervent,  earnest,  and  hopeful  advocacy 
of  the  cause  of  God  and  man.  Those  who  seek  the  good  and  pure  in  literature 
find  an  ample  supply  by  which  the  best  affections  and  the  holiest  aspirations  are 
nurtured,  strengthened,  and  augmented ;  but  it  is  none  the  less  a  duty  to  protest 
against  the  many  evil  publications — novels  more  especially — that  have  general  and 
wide  popularity,  such  as  are  calculated,  if  they  be  not  intended,  to  spread  moral  and 
social  pestilence,  and  destroy  the  foundations  on  which  health,  happiness,  and  faith 
can  only  be  safely  built. 

It  was  during  a  subsequent  visit  to  Bristol  that  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  the 
Rev.  Robert  Hall,  the  famous  Baptist  minister,  who  for  many  years  "  graced  and 
glorified  "  a  Nonconformist  pulpit,  and  not  only  as  an  eloquent  preacher,  but  as  a 
powerful  writer,  aided  the  cause  to  which  his  life  was  devoted.  He  was  born  at 
Arnsby  on  the  2nd  May,  1764,  a  village  about  eight  miles  from  Leicester,  where 
his  father  was  the  pastor  of  a  Baptist  congregation  ;  and  he  died  at  Bristol  in 
February,  1831. 

He  was  the  youngest  of  fourteen  children.  His  infancy  was  more  than  commonly 
feeble  and  unpromising:  "until  he  was  two  years  old  he  could  neither  walk  nor 
talk  ;"  and,  it  is  said,  learned  his  letters  from  the  tombstones  of  an  adjacent  burial- 
ground.  He  made  rapid  progress,  however,  when  his  mind  had  accepted  light.  In 
1780,  having  been  set  apart  to  the  sacred  work  by  his  father's  congregation  at 
Arnsby—"  lifting  up  their  right  hands  and  joining  in  solemn  prayer  "—he  entered 


upon  it,  and  laboured  in  God's  service  to  the  close  of  a  suffering  life,  worshipping 
in  his  chapel  in  the  Broadmead,  Bristol,  until  within  a  few  days  of  his  departure 
from  earth. 

He  was  not  only  a  learned  man  and  an  eloquent  divine,  but  a  man  of  much 
literary  taste.  He  is  said  to  have  been  constitutionally  indolent ;  but  nearly  all  his 
life  he  suffered  from  a  spinal  desease  that  often  incapacitated  him  for  labour  of  any 
kind,  and  sometimes  interrupted  his  discourses  in  the  pulpit;  generally,  indeed, 
compelling  him  to  keep  to  his  easy-chair  all  day  and  smoke  tobacco,  which  he  did  to 
excess ;  but  it  was  his  only  remedy  to  alleviate  pain.* 

When  young,  he  surpassed  Dr.  Johnson  at  drinking  tea.  "  He  has  confessed  to 
me,"  writes  one  of  his  friends,  "  to  taking  thirty  cups  of  tea  in  an  afternoon  ;  his 
method  being  to  visit  four  families,  and  drink  seven  or  eight  cups  with  each." 

No  doubt,  to  his  bodily  suffering  must  be  attributed  the  occasional  bitterness  that 
found  vent  in  words  :  often,  however,  when  they  rubbed  a  sore  they  gave  the  plaster. 
He  cured  one  man  of  his  propensity  to  brandy- and- water  by  bidding  him  call  for  a 
glass  of  liquid  fire  and  distilled  damnation  ;  and  reproved  a  vain  preacher  who  desired 
to  know  his  opinion  of  a  sermon,  "  I  found  one  good  passage,  sir — the  passage  from 
the  pulpit  to  the  vestry." 

It  is  known,  however,  that  he  laboured  to  repress  his  tendency  to  satire  and 
severity,  as  out  of  harmony  with  the  character  of  a  Christian  teacher.  His  wit  was 
not  buoyant,  boisterous,  and  exhilarating,  like  that  of  Sidney  Smith,  whom  in 
person,  and  perhaps  in  mind,  he  somewhat  resembled.  But  in  no  sense  could  he 
be  described  as  morose,  although  suffering  may  have  prevented  his  being  often 
cheerful.  He  was  essentially  benevolent,  and  had  the  loving  and  active  faith  that 
never  fails  to  keep  aw^ay  despondency  from  heart  and  mind.  I  have  before  me  an 
impressive  sentence: — "Keep  away  all  gloom;  for  gloom  insults  God."  That 
sentence  was  given  to  me  under  very  peculiar  circumstances — circumstances  for 
which  I  am  deeply  thankful !  Yet  he  suffered  under  the  combined  influence  of  a  dis- 
ordered body  and  a  mind  overstrained — "jaded  brains,"  as  a  modern  physician  calls 
the  ailment  f — and  was,  though  for  a  brief  time,  the  inmate  of  a  private  insane  asylum. 
I  recall,  with  exceeding  pleasure,  a  morning  I  passed  with  him  at  his  residence 
in  the  Broadmead,  Bristol,  and  the  sermon  I  heard  him  preach  on  the  subsequent 
Sabbath.  I  was  about  to  write  my  remembrance  of  him  ;  but  his  portrait  is  drawn 
by  his  friend,  Olinthus  Gregory,  LL.D.,  so  much  better  than  I  can  draw  it,  that  I 
adopt  it : — 

"  When  I  first  saw  Mr.  Hall,  I  was  struck  with  his  well-proportioned,  athletic 
figure,  the  unassuming  dignity  of  his  deportment,  the  winning  frankness  which 
marked  all  that  he  uttered,  and  the  peculiarities  of  the  most  speaking  countenance 
I  ever  contemplated,  animated  by  eyes  radiating  with  the  brilliancy  imparted  to 
them  by  benevolence,  wit,  and  intellectual  energy." 

*  Some  pages  of  his  sermon,  "  Modern  Infidelity,"  were  written  while  he  was  lying  in  agony  on  the  floor. 

+  Andrew  Scott  Myrlle,  M.D.,  of  Harrogate.  His  essay  on  this  subject,  which  accompanies  a  small  volume  on 
the  mineral  waters  of  HaiTogate,  might  be  read  with  great  advantage  by  a)l  who,  engaged  in  mental  pursuits,  are 
often  attacked  by  the  insidious  but  very  perilous  disease— oveb- work. 


ADAM  CLARKE.  ^  79 


In  the  pulpit  there  was  usually  evidence  of  physical  weakness  ;  his  voice  was 
never  strong  ;  he  usually  commenced  slowly,  and  almost  inaudibly,  but,  as  he  pro- 
ceeded, he  rose  with  his  theme ;  became  fervid,  eloquent,  and  powerful ;  and  the 
deep  attention  and  rapt  enthusiasm  of  his  always  large  audience  Avere  ever  amply 
recompensed.  The  Christian  and  the  scholar  were  alike  content ;  for  every 
sentence  he  uttered  seemed  rounded  and  pointed  so  as  to  defy  criticism,  while  his 
earnestness  carried  conviction  to  "  the  saving  of  many  souls  : "  it  was  the  outpouring 
of  his  own. 

In  1799  he  preached  and  published  his  famous  sermon  on  "  Modern  Infidelity,'' 
concerning  which  Bishop  Porteus  recorded  "his  applause,  veneration,  and  gratitude, 
due  to  the  acute  detector,  perspicuous  impugner,  and  victorious  antagonist  of  the 
sceptical,  infidel,  and  anti- Christian  sophist."  He  believed,  and  therefore  taught, 
that  "  of  all  fanaticism  the  fanaticism  of  infidelity  was  at  once  the  most  preposterous 
and  the  most  destructive,"  and  he  no  doubt  aided  largely  in  arresting  the  progress 
of  the  many  detestable  advocates  of  the  Reign  of  Terror  of  France,  who  were  then 
actively  propagating  "  democracy  and  atheism  conjointly." 

It  will  not  be  considered  "out  of  place  "  if  I  introduce  here  a  Memory  of  another 
remarkable  man — the  Rev.  Adam  Clarke.  He  also  was  a  Dissenting  minister — if  the 
Methodists,  of  whom  he  was  a  distinguished  member,  are  to  be  considered  Dissenters 
from  the  Church  of  England,  which  is  by  no  means  certain.  He  was  born  at 
Magherafelt,  near  Londonderry,  but  was  of  English  parentage  on  both  sides,  and 
died  at  Bayswater,  London,  in  1832,  aged  seventy-two. 

I  knew  the  learned  commentator  in  Cork,  so  far  back  as  the  year  1819,  and, 
although  I  was  little  more  than  a  boy,  had  much  intercourse  with  him.  He  was  but 
a  visitor  to  that  city,  and  not  a  resident  there.  I  knew  him  also  in  London,  not  long 
before  his  death.  He  was  then  dwelling  for  a  time  with  his  two  sons,  who  were 
printers  near  St.  John's  Gate,  Clerkenwell.  I  knew  also  his  daughter,  a  very  estim- 
able and  accomplished  lady.     All  now  have  passed  from  earth.* 

He  had  been  a  fellow-labourer  with  John  Wesley  in  the  vineyard  when  it  was 
choked  with  weeds,  and  yielded  little  fruit.  The  venerable  founder  of  the  Methodists 
had  laid  his  hand  on  the  youth,  and  dedicated  him  to  the  ministry  :  that  was  in  1782. 
In  after  life  the  Doctor  loved  much  to  speak  of  his  early,  though  limited,  knowledge 
of  the  great  man ;  and  his  mortal  remains  were  interred  in  the  burial-ground  of  the 
Methodists  in  the  City  Road  Chapel,  close  beside  those  of  the  Gamaliel  at  whose  feet 
he  had  sat.  It  was  his  lot  to  encounter  prejudice  and  persecution,  but  he  Hved  to  be 
honoured  as  a  scholar  and  beloved  as  a  Christian  teacher. 

Adam  Clarke  was  devotedly  attached  to  the  society  of  which  he  was  so  distin- 
guished a  member.  "  I  belong  to  them,"  lie  once  said,  "  body  and  soul,  blood  and 
sinews  :  this  coat  "  (touching  his  sleeve)  "  is  theirs."  He  was  scarcely  a  youth 
when    he    commenced   the    work,    and   was    known,  indeed,  as    the    boy-preacher. 


*  Another  daug-Mer  was  married  to  Mr.  Hook,  who  had  a  colonial  appointment  at  one  of  the  South  African 
settlements,  and  was  the  mother  of  James  Clarke  Hook,  E.A.,  the  distmgiiished  artist. 


8o 


MEMORIES. 


Eloquent  he  never  was,  but  impressive  he  was  always  ;  his  learning  was  profound ; 
his  knowledge  of  ancient  and  modern  languages  very  extensive ;  and  no  man  had 
more  deeply,  or  with  better  results,  studied  Scripture.  It  was  a  marvel  how,  living 
as  he  did  a  life  of  continual  and  active  labour,  he  found  time  to  acquire  the  mass  of 
knowledge  he  gave  to  the  world  in  his  grand  and  famous  Commentaries  on  the  Old 
and  New  Testament. 

Yet  the  profound  scholar  was  in  manners,  and,  seemingly,  in  thought  as  simple  as 
a  child.  He  was  deemed  eccentric,  and  probably  was  so ;  but  he  was  mild, 
gentle,  and  conciliating — more  especially  to  the  young.  "I  had  a  prejudice  against 
him,"  writes  Montgomery,  "  because  he  was  represented  in  a  portrait  in  the  Methodist 
Ma'iazine  as  wearing  a  cocked  hat ;  but  he  outlived  that  fashion,  and  I  outlived  my 
prejudice.     I  met,  understood,  and  loved  him." 

When  I  first  knew  Adam  Clarke  his  cheeks  were  rosy  with  health ;  they 
resembled  those  of  a  stout  husbandman  rather  than  a  scholar  who  lived  laborious 
days.  He  had  a  ponderous  forehead,  that  seemed  to  weigh  down  the  eyebrows  and 
protrude  the  eyes,  that  were  light  and  "  dreamy ;  "  and  the  eyebrows  were  thick  and 
bushy,  but  white  ;  the  upper  organs,  those  of  benevolence  and  veneration,  were  very 
large ;  he  had  high  cheek-bones ;  and  his  form  was  thick  and  sturdy,  capable,  one 
would  have  thought,  of  enduring  much  fatigue.  I  think  I  never  saw  a  countenance 
(I  am  speaking  of  a  later  period)  that  indicated  more  a  living  out  of  this  world ;  that 
was  of  the  earth  only  as  a  duty ;  perpetually  communing  with  spirits — the  spirits 
of  just  men  made  perfect.  To  be  of  that  company  was  the  study  of  his  life  here.  He 
was  a  good  as  well  as  a  great  man  ;  did  the  work  of  his  Master  thoroughly ;  and  is 
now  of  the  hierarchy  of  heaven. 


JAMES   MONTGOMEEY. 


ENTLE,  suave,  and  tender,  in  look  and  manner,  with  very 
little  outward  development  of  power,  but  with  an  aspect 
that  indicated  a  sensitive  and  generous  soul,  was  the  poet, 
James  Montgomery,  when  I  knew  him — in  1830.  His 
early  associateship  with  the  sect  called  the  "  Moravian 
Brethren  "  had  probably  given  to  his  mind  a  tinge  of 
melancholy ;  for  so  he  always  seemed  to  me,  and  so,  I 
believe,  he  seemed  to  others. 

It  matters  little  whether  he  was  or  was  not  a  descendant 
(^ynJ-'^  of  that  ancient  family  whose  name  is  renowned  in  three  Kingdoms,  and 
rr(j^f     who   "came  in  with  the  Conqueror:"    he    had  a  higher  boast,  that   he 

^i^^*—-'^  "  The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies." 

7 

'  His  father  was  the  Rev.  John  Montgomery,  who  had  been  appointed  to 

the  pastoral  charge  of  a  small  congregation  of  the  "  United  (Moravian)  Brethren," 
at  Irvine,  a  seaport  in  Ayrshire  :  and  on  the  4th  of  November,  1771,  the  poet 
was  there  born.     His  father  and  mother  were  both  Irish,   and  of  Irish  descent. 

a 


82  MEMORIES. 


I 


He  was  himself,  therefore,  more  than  half  Irish, — as  he  said  to  his  friend,  John 
Holland,  having  "  barely  escaped  being  born  in  Ireland  " — entering  the  world  a  few- 
weeks  after  the  arrival  of  his  mother  at  Irvine,  and  returning  with  her  to  Ireland 
four  years  and  a  half  after  his  birth.  He  received  his  earliest  lessons  at  Grace  Hill, 
in  the  county  of  Antrim,  from  a  genuine  Irish  schoolmaster — "  one  Neddy  McKaffery," 
— and  was  educated  at  the  Moravian  Settlement,  Fulneck,  about  six  miles  from  Leeds, 
his  parents  having  been  removed  to  the  island  of  Barbadoes,  as  "  missionaries  among 
the  negro  slaves."  His  mother  died  at  Tobago  in  1790,  and  his  father  at  Barbadoes 
in  1791.  The  mission  was  unfortunate.  The  good  man,  in  his  hopelessness, 
exclaimed,  "Oh  that  I  knew  one  soul  in  Tobago  truly  concerned  for  his  salvation, 
how  should  I  rejoice  !  "  They  pursued  their  vocation,  none  the  less;  doing,  as  far 
as  they  could,  the  work  of  their  Master,  amid  privations  and  sufferings,  literally  unto 
death.     Thus  wrote  their  poet-son  : — 

"  Beneath  the  lion  star  they  sleep, 
Beyond  the  western  deep  ; 
And  when  the  sun's  noon  glory  crests  the  waves, 
He  sliines  without  a  shadow  on  their  gi-aves." 

During  his  long  life,  James  Montgomery  paid  but  one  visit  to  the  land  in  which 
he  was  born.  It  is,  therefore,  absurd  to  describe  him  as  a  Scotchman  ;  to  all  intents 
and  purposes  he  was,  as  he  himself  said  he  had  nearly  been,  an  Irishman  ;  for  it  is 
certain  that  the  native  country  of  a  man  is  not  determined  by  the  accident  of  birth, 
otherwise  some  of  the  most  renowned  Englishmen  must  be  treated  as  Frenchmen  or 
Spaniards.  A  man  loses  no  civil  rights,  as  a  British  subject,  by  being  born  in  a 
foreign  state,  nor  does  he,  by  such  "  mischance,"  acquire  any  of  the  privileges  to 
which,  as  a  native  of  such  state,  he  would  be  entitled.* 

In  1830,  when  Mr.  Everett,  one  of  Montgomery's  biographers,  visited  Grace 
Hill,  a  nephew  and  two  aunts  of  the  poet  were  "  residents  "  there.  Probably  some 
of  the  family  live  there  still.  Montgomery  himself  visited  Grace  Hill  in  1842.  He 
had  retained  a  vivid  recollection  of  the  place,  and  the  several  objects  and  incidents 
associated  with  it. 

When  Montgomery  visited  Irvine,  where  he  was  formally  welcomed  by  the 
authorities  with  the  respect  due  to  one  whose  genius  and  virtues  had  done  honour 
to  the  burgh,  the  little  chapel  in  which  his  father  had  preached  was  no  longer  used 
as  a  sanctuary.  It  then  contained  four  or  five  looms  ;  yet  he  had  a  strong  memory 
of  the  place,  and  was  deeply  touched  by  the  visit—"  its  bridge,  its  river,  its  street- 


I 


*  Maria  Edgeworth  was  horn  in  England.  Her  claim  to  be  EngHsh  is  stronger  than  that  of  Montgomery  to  he 
Scottish  ;  for  her  mother  was  an  Englishwoman,  her  father  was  English  born,  and  she  wis  many  years  a  resident 
in  England  before  she  visited  Ireland.  Cardinal  Wiseman  was  cii'cumstanced  as  was  James  Monlgomerj':  his 
parents  were  Irish,  but  he  was  born  in  Spain,  and  sent  to  England  for  education  when  five  or  six  years  old. 

Montgomery,  in  the  course  of  a  speech  at  a  public  meeting,  made  these  remarks  :— "  If  I  did  not  love  Irelana 
fervently,  I  should  be  a  most  unnatural  and  ungrateful  wi'etch  ;  every  drop  of  blood  in  my  veins  was  drawn  trom 
Irish  foimtains  ;  both  my  pai-ents  were  Irish,  and  the  first  motion  of  my  heart  was  commumcated  by  the  pulse  ot  an 
Irish  mother's."  .       ,  ,  „  -^     ,     j     m  •   ■= 

I  thought  it  weU  to  determine  this  point,  and  put  a  written  case  before  an  emment  lawyer  of  England,  ims  is 
his  opinion  :— "  If  born  of  English  parents,  no  matter  w/iej-e— Scotland,  Spain,  or  m  any  vessel,  in  any  clime-he  is 
English  :  there  is  an  especial  Act  of  the  British  Parhament  putting  the  matter  beyond  question.  Certainly,  it 
born  in  Spain,  he  could  claim  no  rights  as  a  Spaniard,  nor  lose  any  as  an  Englishman,  always  supposing  the  parents 
had  not  been  naturalised."  As  it  was  possible  the  Scottish  law  differed  from  the  English,  I  consulted  a  Soottisi 
lawyer.  This  is  his  opinion ;— "  The  fact  of  being  born  in  Scotland  is  of  no  account;  A  child  so  bom  is  no  more  a 
Scotchman,  by  virtue  of  that  fact,  than  he  would  be  a  marine  by  being  born  at  sea." 


aspect,  and  its  rural  landscape,  with  sea- glimpses  between."  His  memory  of  Grace 
Hill  was  necessarily  more  clear  and  strong,  but  be  bad  evidently  no  special  attach- 
ment to  either.     He  was  in  effect,  though  not  in  fact,  a  native  of  Sheffield. 


Fulneck,  a  few  miles  from  Leeds,  was,  and  is,  not  only  a  settlement,  but  may  be 
called  a  college,  of  the  Moravians.  Montgomery  became  a  scholar  there  in  1777, 
the  design  of  his  parents  being  to  educate  him  for  the  ministry.  It  must  have  been 
a  dolorous  place,  according  to  the  vivid  description  of  William  Hewitt,  though  others 

g2 


84  MEMORIES. 


•have  spoken  of  it  differently.  No  doubt  in  1777  it  was  far  less  dismal  than  it  is  in 
1870,  when  huge  chimneys  stretch  up  to  the  sky,  clouds  are  intercepted  by  smoke, 
and  a  perpetual  din  of  the  hammer  drowns  the  song  of  birds — if  any  remain  to  sing. 

But  in  its  best  time  little  of  the  more  striking  aspects  of  beautiful  nature  could 
have  been  without  the  walls  ;  while  within,  the  Fathers  and  "  Brethren  "  sought  by 
precept  and  example  to  close  the  outer  world  to  the  eyes  and  hearts  of  the  neophytes. 
Such  a  locality,  and  such  a  system,  would  have  dried  up  the  living  fountain  that 
issued  from  the  heart  even  of  great  Wordsworth.  True,  something  must  be  con- 
ceded to  systematic  education,  but  a  worse  home  in  which  to  educate  a  poet  can 
hardly  be  conceived.*  Neither  was  Montgomery  much  better  off  when,  in  after-life, 
his  Parnassus  was  the  close  street  called  "  Hartshead,"  or  even  "  The  Mount,"  at 
Sheffield — the  world's  factory  of  steel  and  iron. 

No  doubt,  in  his  poetry,  his  narrow  sectarianism  was  a  serious  trammel.  He 
could  never  give  full  vent  to  fancy  ;  imagination  was  not  permitted  to  body  forth 
the  forms  of  things  unknown  ;  inventions  were  stigmatised  as  falsehoods  ;  and  fiction 
was  unpardonable  crime.  The  fine  frenzy  of  the  poet  was,  therefore,  a  sin  against 
the  brotherhood  ;  and  themes  in  which  happier  "  makers  "  revelled  were  excluded 
from  entries  in  his  book  of  life.  Montgomery  was  not  heard  in  protest  against  this 
untoward  fate,  although  he  does  complain  that  he  had  been  often  compelled  to 
sacrifice  brilliant  forms  of  expression,  which,  whatever  admiration  they  may  have 
won  from  many  readers,  were  "  incompatible  with  Christian  verity." 

Montgomery's  promise  of  the  future  was  not  such  as  to  justify  the  hopes  of  the 
Directors  at  Fulneck  ;  the  ministry  was  not  to  be  his  lot.  Little  did  the  good 
Fathers  foresee  that  the  rejected  was  to  become  a  mightier  teacher — more  powerful 
to  influence  the  hearts  and  minds  of  humankind — than  the  whole  of  the  students  put 
together  whom  Fulneck  was  rearing  to  become  missionaries  throughout  the  world ; 
that  the  silent,  unsocial,  and  seemingly  indolent  lad  whom,  hopeless  of  better 
things,  they  consigned  to  the  counter  of  a  small  shopkeeper  at  Wath,  was  destined 
to  make  their  gentle  faith  reverenced  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  earth,  among  the 
millions  upon  millions  who  speak  the  Anglo-Saxon  tongue. 

Neither  was  shop-thraldom  for  him  ;  he  threw  off  the  shackles  they  had  placed 
on  his  soul.  Considering  himself  free  (as  he  was  not  under  indentures)  to  act  for 
himself,  he  set  forth  "to  seek  his  fortune,"  but  almost  penniless,  and  without  a 
guide  ;  nay,  not  without  a  guide,  for  the  Master  he  was  to  serve  as  the  "  Christian 
poet  "  of  a  future  was  at  his  side.  After  a  brief  sojourn  with  the  shopkeeper  at 
Wath  and  a  bookseller  in  London,  he  was  conducted  to  the  proverbially  unpoetic 
and  intellectually  unfruitful  town  of  Sheffield,  where  the  whole  of  his  after-life  was 
passed  from  the  age  of  twenty-one  to  that  of  eighty-three.  To  the  "  hard-handed 
men  in  that  capital  of  "  toil  and  traffic  "  he  brought  a  shining  light.  Assuredly  he 
was  led  where  he  was  most  needed ;  and  who  shall  say  how  far  the  gentle  teachmgs 
and  glad  tidings  of  the  Gospel,  preached   by  him  during  so  many  years  from  the 


*  One  of  the  Moravian  pastors  asks  Montgomery,  in  a  letter  from  Fnlneck— "Do  you  yoiu-self  ascribe  your 
■  tendency  to  depression  of  spirits  to  yoirr  mode  of  education  here  \ "  There  appears  to  have  been  no  answer  to  tne 
question. 


JAMES  MONTGOMERY.  85 


printing-press,  and  in  so  many  "  speeches,"  inflaenced  a  people,  many  of  them  then 
and  always  conspicuous  for  passionate,  not  to  say  reckless,  ardour  ?  and  who  shall 
gauge  the  influence  of  the  Christian  poet  in  counterbalancing  the  dangerous  efforts 
of  a  fierce  democratic  power  that  soon  obtained  ascendancy  in  that  stirring  and  ener- 
getic town  ? — the  one  poet  uttering  curses  loud  and  deep  against  a  tax-fed  aristo- 
cracy ;  *'  the  other  breathing  gently  in  his  prose  and  verse,  and  illustrating,  by  his 
example,  the  merciful  teachings  of  the  suffering  yet  ever-considerate  Saviour. 

Yes,  the  pulpit  of  James  Montgomery  was  the  wide,  wide  world,  and  his  con- 
gregation the  whole  of  humankind. 

Moreover,  he  was  unfitted  for  the  ministry  by  "  constitutional  indolence," — he 
might  have  said,  excessive  sensibility.  Of  himself  he  writes,  so  early  as  1794,."! 
was  distinguished  for  nothing  but  indolence  and  melancholy."  "  I  who  am  always 
asleep  when  I  ought  to  be  working." 

But  Montgomery  had,  in  reality,  "no  vocation  for  the  pulpit,"  and  it  is  not 
unlikely  that  the  austerity  of  Fulneck  School  rendered  a  prospect  of  the  ministry 
distasteful  to  him  ;  at  any  rate,  the  rebound  of  his  spirit,  when  breaking  away  from 
his  religious  teachers,  took  a  different  direction.  His  destiny  was  to  be,  not  a  man 
of  peace,  but  a  man  of  war — with  the  pen,  that  is  to  say.  Very  early  in  life  he 
launched  his  fragile,  if  not  "frail"'  bark  on  the  stormy  sea  of  politics.  His  youth 
and  his  earlier  manhood  Avere  expended  in  the  party-contests  of  a  provincial  town, 
although  his  large  mind  and  high  soul  dealt  occasionally  with  the  loftier  topics  that 
concern  humanity.     No  doubt,  in  the  main  and  for  a  time,  he 

"  To  party  gave  up  wliat  was  meant  for  mankind." 

In  1794  Montgomery  commenced  to  publish  in  Shefiield  the  Iris  newspaper,  pass- 
ing in  a  few  short  months  from  "  a  seclusion  almost  equal  to  that  of  the  cloister,"  to 
what  was  then  one  of  the  most  responsible  and  perilous  stations  in  active  life— that 
of  "  a  newspaper  publisher,  politician,  and  patriot  " — exhibiting,  as  if  in  proof  of  Dr. 
Johnson's  notable  averment,  "something  of  that  indistinct  and  headstrong  ardour 
for  liberty  which  a  man  of  genius  always  catches  when  he  enters  the  world,  and 
always  suffers  to  cool  as  he  passes  forward." 

On  the  4th  of  July  the  first  number  appeared.  He  had  soon  to  endure  the  pains 
and  penalties  consequent  on  his  position.  In  October,  1794,  he  was  prosecuted  for 
printing  "  a  patriotic  song  by  a  clergyman  of  Belfast."  The  passage  that  was  pro- 
nounced "libellous  "  by  the  sapient  justices  who  tried  the  case  was  this: — 

"  Europe's  fate  on  the  contest's  decision  depends, 
Most  important  its  issue  will  be  ; 
For  should  France  be  subdued,  Europe's  liberty  ends ; 
If  she  triumphs,  the  world  wiU  be  free." 

The  verses  were  written  by  a  Mr.  Scott,  of  Dromore,  and  were  sung  at  a  festival 
in  Belfast,  to  commemorate  the  destruction  of  the  Bastille  ;  and  they  had  been 
printed  in  various  newspapers  (among  others,  the  Horning  Chronicle)  a  year  before 


Ebenezer  Elliott. 


MEMORIES. 


Montgomery  was  prosecuted  for  reprinting  them  for  a  ballad-hawker  ;  for  which  he 
received,  as  a  printer,  the  sum  of  eighteen-pence.  It  bore  internal  evidence  that  he 
was  not  the  writer — indeed,  that  was  not  charged  against  him  ;  yet  he  was  con- 
victed and  sentenced  to  three  months'  imprisonment  in  York  Castle,  and  to  pay  a 
fine  of  £20. 

Not  long  afterwards  (in  1796)  he  was  a  second  time  tried,  convicted,  and 
imprisoned  for  libel.  It  was  for  printing  in  his  newspaper  what  he  considered  a  true 
statement  of  facts  concerning  a  riot  that  had  taken  place  at  Sheffield,  in  which 
several  lives  were  lost.*  He  was  sentenced  to  six  months'  imprisonment,  and  a  fine 
of  £60. 

Again,  therefore,  to  quote  his  own  words,  "he  kept  house  in  York  Castle." 

In  a  letter  I  received  from  him  in  1837  he  thus  alludes  to  himself: — "  The  dis- 
appointment of  my  premature  poetical  hopes  brought  a  blight  with  it,  which  my  mind 
has  never  recovered.  For  many  years  I  was  as  mute  as  a  moulting  bird,  and  when 
the  power  of  song  returned,  it  was  without  the  energy,  self-confidence,  and  freedom 
which  happier  minstrels  among  my  contemporaries  have  manifested,  and  have  owed 
much  of  their  success  to  such  inspiration  from  their  own  conscious  talents."  t 

No  doubt  much  of  this  state  of  mind  resulted  from  the  severity  of  criticism  dealt 
out  to  him  ;  it  acted  on  a  naturally  sensitive  nature  and  a  delicate  constitution,  and 
had  the  effect  it  was  probably  designed  to  produce.  Take,  for  example,  the  following 
passages  from  the  Edinburyh  Review — January,  1807 — where  Montgomery  was  cried 
down  (!)  as  "intoxicated  with  weak  tea,  and  the  praises  of  sentimental  ensigns,  and 
other  provincial  literati ;  "  "a  writer  of  middling  verses,"  whose  readers  were  "  half- 
educated  women,  sickly  tradesmen,  and  enamoured  apprentices  ;  "  a  "  most  musical 
and  melancholy  gentleman,"  "  very  weakly,  very  finical,  and  very  afi'ected  ;  "  the 
review  ending  with  a  prophecy  that  "  in  less  than  three  years  no  one  will  know  the 
name  of  the  '  Wanderer  of  Switzerland,'  or  any  of  the  other  poems  "  of  James  Mont- 
gomery !  Such  was  the  judgment  of  Francis  Jeffi-ey.  How  righteously  true,  how 
glorious  in  its  fulfilment,  was  the  prophecy  put  forth  in  1807 — the  fulfilment  which 
Jeffrey,  the  writer,  lived  to  witness,  so  long  afterwards  as  1856  ! 

In  1825  he  retired  from  the  Lu.  On  the  27th  of  September  of  that  year 
appeared  the  last  number  of  that  journal  with  the  imprint  of  James  Montgomery.]: 
His  fellow-townsmen  received  him  at  a  public  dinner,  at  which  Earl  Fitzwilliam  pre- 
sided ;  persons  of  all  political  opinions  attended  to  do  him  honour,  acknowledging 
his  services  to  humanity,  the  gentleness  with  which  he  had  done  his  "  spiriting,"  the 
blameless  tenor  of  his  life,  the  suavity  of  his  manners,  and  the  firmness  of  his  character 
— that  as  a  public  journalist  he  had  honoured  and  dignified  the  Press  of  his  country. 

*  When,  in  1796,  Coleridge  was  canvassing  for  subscribers  to  the  Watchman,  he  declined  to  make  any  efforts  in 
Sheffield,  "  lest  he  should  injure  the  sale  of  the  Iris,"  "the  Editor  of  which  is  a  very  amiable  and  ingenious  young 
man  of  the  name  of  James  Montgomery." 

+  "  The  Wanderer  of  Switzerland  "  was  published  in  1806  ;  "  The  West  Indies,"  1810 ;  "  The  World  before  the 
Flood,"  1813 ;  "  Greenland,"  1819  ;  "  Prose  by  a  Poet,"  1824  ;  "  The  Pelican  Island,  "  1827 ;  "  Lectures  on 
Poetry,"  1833. 

J  The  Iris  was,  at  one  time,  "  the  only  newspaper  published  at  Sheffield ; "  and  in  allusion  to  this  fact,  on 
Montgomery's  relinquishing  it,  Wilson  says,  in  the  "  Noctes,"  "A  hundred  firesides  sent  their  representatives  to 
bless  the  man  whose  genius  had  cheered  their  homes  for  thirty  winters."  He  adds,  "  His  poetry  will  live,  for  he 
has  heart  and  imagination  ;  the  religious  spirit  of  his  poetry  is  affecting  and  profound." 


JAMES  MONTGOMER  Y. 


87 


And  throughout  the  kingdom  that  opinion  there  was  none  to  gainsay.  Thence- 
forward he  entirely  abstained  from  pohtical  writing ;  and  his  biographer  says  that,  in 
1837,  "  his  opinions  had  become,  in  the  main,  very  similar  to  those  now  indicated 
by  the  term  Conservative." 

On  retiring  from  business  Montgomery  left  the  premises  in  the  Hartshead,  where 
he  had  so  long  resided,  and  went  to  live  at  The  Mount,  a  pleasant  situation  about  a 
mile  outside  the  town,  and  overlooking  the  valley  of  the  Sheaf.  The  house  occupied 
by  the  poet  was  one  of  eight  (represented  in  the  engraving),  which  together  form  a 
handsome  and  imposing  pile  of  building. 


THE   MOUNT,   AT    SHEFFIELD  :   MONrGOMEEY'S   HOUSE. 


In  1830,  Montgomery  was  in  London  to  deliver  lectures  on  English  Literature  at 
the  Royal  Institution. 

It  was  then  he  visited  us— in  Sloane  Street.  I  had  seen  him  once  before,  during 
a  rapid  run  through  Sheffield,  when  I  had  a  brief  interview  Avith  him,  seated,  ex 
cathedra,  in  the  office  of  the  Ins,  in  the  dingy  locality  before  menuoned.  It  was  in 
that  year,  while  he  was  contenting  himself  with  the  production  of  occasional  verses 
—often  commemorating  the  worth  of  the  departed,  soothing  sorrow,  and  arousing 
hope  in  survivors— that  another  Montgomery— Robert  Montgomery— claimed  and 


88  MEMORIES. 

obtained  tlie  suffrages  of  the  world.  The  "  Oranipresence  of  the  Deity  "  rapidly 
passed  through  seven  or  eight  editions,  and  Robert  gave,  in  a  year,  more  employment 
to  the  printers  than  James  had  found  for  them  in  half  a  century  of  work.  Yet  surely, 
while  the  one  was  pure  gold — thrice  tried  in  the  furnace — the  other  was,  by  com- 
parison, "sounding  brass  and  tinkling  cymbal." 

Some  notes  concerning  Robert  Montgomery  may  not  be  unacceptable  to  my 
readers. 

I  remember  James  Montgomery  calling  upon  me  soon  after  the  work  of  his  name- 
sake appeared,  and  became  at  once  "  famous."  His  mind  seemed  much  unsettled, 
and  he  spoke  as  if  under  the  influence  of  some  affliction,  as  he  asked  me  for  my 
sympathy,  showing  me  a  letter,  and  telling  me  it  was  not  the  only  one  of  the  kind 
he  had  received,  in  which  the  writer  congratulated  him  on  the  success  of  his  new 
poem,  adding  that  "  it  was  undoubtedly  his  best,  and  that  as  he  grew  in  years  he 
grew  in  vigour  and  in  beauty."  The  new  poem  was  "  The  Omnipresence  of  the 
Deity  !  "  by  his  namesake. 

No  doubt  the  sudden,  extreme,  and  irrational  popularity  of  Robert  gave  pain  to 
James,  not  from  envy  certainly,  but  on  account  of  the  mistakes  arising,  not  always 
undesignedly,  from  the  similarity  of  names.  It  is  not  in  human  nature  to  bear  such 
mortifications  without  umbrage.  Whether  Robert  was  2yarticeps  crlminis  or  not,  I 
cannot  say,  but  certainly  the  advertisements  issued  by  his  publisher — Maunder — of 
"  Montgomery's  new  poem,"  repeated  perpetually  without  any  prefix,  if  not  intended 
to  deceive,  did  deceive,  not  the  public  alone,  but  the  booksellers,  and  in  some 
instances  critics  and  reviewers.  One  speaker  at  a  public  meeting,  James  being 
present,  alluded  in  terms  highly  complimentary  to  Robert's  poem  of  "  Woman,"  as 
"  rendering  tardy  honours  to  the  sex,"  and  in  their  name  tendered  thanks  to  James, 
whom  he  took  to  be  its  author. 

A  note  to  an  article  in  the  Quarterly  which  contained  this  passage,  "  We  mean 
the  poet  Montgomery,  and  not  the  Mr.  Gomery  who  assumed  the  afiix  of  '  Mont,'  " 
&c.,  naturally  excited  the  ire  of  Robert,  who  wrote  to  James,  indignantly  denying 
the  assumption  of  the  name,  which  he  affirmed  was  his  natural  right.  To  that  letter 
James  wrote  a  lengthened  reply,  in  which  he  stated,  "  The  worst  that  I  wish  to  Mr. 
Robert  Montgomery  is,  that  some  rich  man  would  die  ^nd  leave  him  a  handsome 
estate,  on  condition  that  he  should  take  the  name  of  his  benefactor;  "  but  he  did  not 
conceal  his  vexation  at  the  annoyances  to  which  he  had  been  subjected.* 

I  would  not,  however,  seem  to  cast  a  slur  upon  the  memory  of  the  lesser,  while 
lauding  the  greater,  Montgomery ;  the  suffrages  of  thousands  have  given  to  him  a 
niche  in  the  Temple  of  Fame,  and  if  rated  above  his  value  as  a  'poet,  he  was  at  all 
events  a  kindly  man,  a  zealous  clergyman,  and  a  fervent  Christian,  to  whose  rare 
powers  as  a  preacher  some  of  our  best  charities  are  indebted  for  much  of  their  means 
to  lessen  and  relieve  human  suffering. 

*  Kobeit  had  the  cure  of  a  church  in  Glasgow  when  James  visited  that  city,  but  he  did  not  call  upon  his 
venerable  namesake  ;  yet  the  poet  went  to  hear  him  preach.  On  his  retui-n  to  Sheffield,  James,  being  questioned 
on  the  subject,  merely  said,  "  1  cannot  be  one  of  his  eulogists,  and  I  will  not  say  anything  to  his  disparagement." 


I  think  the  exact  particulars  of  his  parentage  have  never  been  given:  it  is, 
however,  believed  his  father's  name  was  Montgomery,-  but  that  he  had  dropped  the' 
aristocratic  quarter  of  it,  calling  himself  Gomery,  and  that  Robert,  in  assuming  it, 
did  no  more  than  he  was  entitled  to  do.  ° 

It  was  in  1825  or  1826  that  Robert  Montgomery  brought  me  an  introduction;  I 
cannot  now  say  from  whom.  There  came  to  spend  an  evening  with  me  a  somewhat 
handsome  and  rather  "foppish"  young  man,  tall,  and  slight,  and  gentlemanly, 
though  assuming  and  exacting  in  manners.  His  object  was  to  read  to  me  a  poem 
he  had  written,  which  he  called  "  The  Age  Reviewed."  It  was  full  of  sparlding 
"  cleverness,"  but  was  a  satire  on  the  leading  reviewers,  poets,  and  authors  of  the 
day.  The  half-fledged  sparrow  was  about  to  peck  at  the  eagle's  plumes.  Names 
the  most  honoured  and  reverenced  in  letters — some  who  were  even  then  almost  of 
the  future— were  treated  with  contumely  and  scorn;  heroes  in  a  hundred  fights 
were  to  go  down  "before  the  grey  goose-quill"  of  the  boy  Goliath  !  His  great 
prototype,  Byron,  was  bitterly  lamenting  a  wicked  folly  of  the  kind,  but  the  intel- 
lectual giant  had  strength  for  the  encounter,  which  this  thoughtless  youth  had  not. 
I  listened  as  he  read,  and  when  he  had  finished  I  gave  him  serious  and  earnest 
counsel  at  once  to  put  his  poem  into  the  fire  beside  which  we  were  sitting.  My 
advice  was  angrily  rejected.  Robert  Montgomery  published  "  The  Age  Reviewed,"! 
and  lamented  the  wanton  act  of  aggression  all  the  days  of  his  life.  Many  years 
passed  before  I  again  saw  him ;  he  had  then  been  ordained,  and  was  a  favourite 
preacher — especially  fond  of  preaching  charity  sermons.  We  were  brought  together 
in  consequence  of  our  mutual  interest  in  the  Hospital  for  the  cure  of  Consumption 
at  Brompton — a  charity  for  which  he  exerted  himself  ardently  and  zealously. 

He  was  certainly  the  vainest  man  I  have  ever  known.  To  him  notoriety  was 
fame  ;  a  "  few  "  was  never  a  "  fit  "  audience  ;  he  would  have  far  preferred  a  bellow 
of  applause  from  a  crowded  gallery  to  a  half-suppressed  murmur  of  admiration  from 
"  the  first  row  in  the  pit." 

The  portrait  I  draw  of  him,  however,  cannot,  and  ought  not  to  be,  all  shade. 
Beyond  his  vanity  there  was  no  harm  in  him  ;  nay,  his  nature  was  generous  and 
kindly.  He  was  eloquent  and  impressive  in  the  pulpit,  and  discharged  zealously 
and  faithfully  his  manifold  duties  as  a  clergyman.  The  Consumption  Hospital  is  by 
no  means  the  only  charity  for  which  he  heartily  worked.}  In  all  the  minor  relations 
of  life — as  husband,  father,  and  friend — he  was  exemplary. 

Of  his  merits  as  a  poet  I  do  not  take  upon  myself  to  speak.     A  writer  who  lived 

o  see  thirty-six  editions  of  one  poem,  "  The  Omnipresence  of  the  Deity,"  and  many 

editions  of  several  other  poems,  could  not  be  without  great  merit,  though  it  may  be 

of  "  a  certain  kind  ;  "  moreover,  he  was  not  prostrated,  although  for  a  time  hurled 

to  the  ground  by  the  memorable  and  terrific   assault  of  Macaulay  ;  and  though  he 

*  It  is  said,  but  I  know  not  with  what  truth,  that  the  father  of  Robert,  usually  called  Gomery,  had  been  a 
theatrical  clown. 

+  "The  Age  Reviewed,"  by  Robert  Montgomery.  Professor  Wilson,  in  the  "  Nootes,"  speaks  of  the  book 
thus:  " I  gave  the  thing  a  glance — wretched  stuff." 

t  For  the  Consumption  Hospital  alone  he  preached  thii-ty  times,  at  thirty  different  churches,  extending  over  a 
period  from  January,  1843,  to  December,  1853,  adding  thus  to  its  funds  no  less  a  sum  than  £1,194  lis.  id. 


died  comparatively  young,*  he  had  a  position  and  achieved  a  triumph  for  which 
thousands  labour  in  vain. 

It  was,  as  I  have  said,  in  1830,  when  he  visited  London  to  deliver,  at  the  Royal 
Institution,  a  series  of  lectures  on  poetry,  that  we  became  personally  acquainted 
with  James  Montgomery.  As  a  lecturer  he  cannot  be  described  as  successful ;  his 
matter  was  of  course  good,  but  his  manner,  as  may  be  supposed,  lacked  the  power, 
the  earnestness,  the  conviction,  in  a  word,  that  rarely  fail  to  impress  an  audience, 
and  which  often  stand  serviceable  in  the  stead  of  aids  more  important.!  Previously 
I  had  barely  seen  Montgomery,  yet  I  had  been  in  frequent  correspondence  with  him, 
for  he  had  written  year  after  year  for  the  Aiiiulfit,  which  contained  some  of  his  best 
compositions  in  prose  and  verse.  I  was,  however,  prepared  to  see  a  gentleman  of 
calm,  sedate,  and  impressive  exterior. 

In  1835  James  Montgomery  received  one  of  the  Crown  pensions — a  grant  of 
£150  a  year — the  donor  being  Sir  Robert  Peel.  It  was  one  of  the  latest  acts  of  the 
great  statesman's  Government,  for  the  day  after  the  grant  was  made  he  ceased  to  be 
minister — for  a  time. 

Montgomery  was  never  married.  His  love  verses  have  been  variously  inter- 
preted. In  a  letter  written  when  he  was  aged,  he  somewhat  mysteriously  alludes  to 
his  celibacy  :  "  The  secret  is  within  myself,  and  it  is  on  the  way  to  the  grave,  from 
which  no  secret  will  be  betrayed  till  the  day  of  judgment." 

The  last  time  I  saw  Montgomery  was  during  his  one  visit  to  the  Exhibition  in 
1851  ;  the  venerable  man  was  moving  slowly  about  from  stall  to  stall,  examining, 
apparently  with  a  dull  and  listless  look,  the  beauties  of  manufactured  art  by  which 
he  was  surrounded.  His  form  was  shrunk,  he  stooped  somewhat,  his  once  bright 
eye  seemed  glazed  ;  he  was,  indeed,  but  the  shadow  of  his  former  self;  yet  I  was 
told  he  had  brightened  up  into  his  old  nature  when,  just  before,  he  had  been  looking 
over  the  books  in  one  hundred  and  sixty-five  languages  of  parts  of  the  Holy 
Scripture  that  England  had  printed  as  a  benefaction  to  varied  mankind.  I  had  to 
recall  myself  to  his  memory,  but  when  I  did  so  I  obtained  a  cordial  greeting,  that 
even  to-day  I  remember,  and  record  with  gratitude  and  pleasure.  As  I  left  him  I 
could  not  help  repeating  his  lines — 

"  There  is  a  calm  for  those  who  weep, 
A  rest  for  weary  pilgrims  fomid." 

I  have  said  the  personal  appearance  of  Montgomery  was  not  striking.  The  eye 
was  the  redeeming  feature  in  an  othei'wise  plain  face.  It  was  (or  seemed  to  be)  a 
clear,  bright  blue,  outlooking  and  uplooking.:^ 


*  The  Eev.  Eobert  Montgomery  died  in  December,  1855,  leaving  a  widow  and  one  child.  During  the  later 
years  of  his  life  he  was  the  preacher  in  Percy  Chapel,  Charlotte  Street,  Fitzroy  Square. 

t  These  lectures,  received  not  unfavourably  at  the  Roj'al  Institution  as  the  opinions  of  a  poet  concerning  the 
brethren  and  mysteries  of  the  craft,  were  delivered  in  seveiul  towns,  and  afterwards  published  in  a  volume,  the 
reception  of  which  would  by  no  means  be  a  fair  or  favourable  criterion  of  the  public  appreciation  of  his  merits  as 
a  poet. 

t  One  of  the  artists  who  painted  his  portrait  said  that  his  eyes  were  "  in  reality  a  bright  hazel,  within  a  narrow 
circle  of  clear  blue,  and  so  lustrous,  that  in  some  lights  the  latter  seemed  the  prevailing  tint." 


JAMES  MONTGOMERY.  91 


In  1805  the  sculptor  Chantrey,  "  a  young  artist  whose  modesty  and  zeal  for 
improvement  are  equal  to  his  talents,"  ijainted  a  portrait  of  Montgomery.  He  was 
often  painted  ;  in  1827  by  Jackson,  R.A.,  whose  portrait  is  perhaps  the  best.  That 
by  lUidge  is  good,  Mr.  Barber  painted  a  full-length  for  the  Sheffield  Literary  and 
Philosophical  Institution,  where  it  now  is,  and  where  I  have  gladly  seen  it.  But 
Montgomery  said  that  of  all  his  portraits,  there  was  not  one  he  should  like  to  see 
engraved.  A  faithful  profile  likeness  of  the  "Christian  Poet"  appears  on  the 
bronze  medal  which  is  annually  presented  by  the  Sheffield  School  of.  Art  for 
the  most  successful  drawing,  by  any  pupil,  of  English  wild  flowers  ;  it  was  from 
a  portrait  carefully  modelled  from  the  life  at  fourscore.  He  considered,  however, 
that  his  face  was  "  rather  improved  than  deteriorated  by  age."  In  one  of  his 
letters  he  speaks  of  himself  as  "  the  ugliest  man  in  Sheffield."  He  was  nothing 
of  the  kind. 

Mrs.  Hemans,  who  received  a  visit  from  Montgomery  in  1828,  speaks  of  his 
"mass  of  tangled,  streaming,  meteoric-looking  hair  ;  "  and  another  writer  says  that, 
"  when  young,  he  had  an  abundant  crop  of  carroty  locks." 

In  1825,  when  the  poet  may  be  said  to  have  been  at  the  best  period  of  his  life, 
and  certainly  in  the  zenith  of  his  fame,  he  was  visited  by  a  Mr.  Carter,  editor  of  a 
newspaper  in  New  York ;  and,  as  Mr.  Holland  has  reprinted  the  article  that  thence 
arose,  we  are  to  assume  that  he  endorses  it. 

Of  Montgomery  he  says,  "  In  his  manners  the  author  manifests  that  mildness, 
simplicity,  and  kindness  of  heart  so  conspicuous  in  his  writings.  His  flow  ot  conver- 
sation is  copious,  easy,  and  perfectly  free  from  affectation  ;  his  language  polished, 
but  without  an  approach  to  pedantry.  ...  In  person  he  is  slender  and  delicate, 
rather  below  the  common  size  ;  his  complexion  is  Ught,  with  a  Roman  nose,  high 
forehead,  slightly  bald,  and  a  clear  eye,  not  unfrequently  downcast." 

Mrs.  Hofland  wrote  for  the  'New  MontliUj  during  my  editorship,  in  1835,  an 
article  entitled  "  Sheffield  and  its  Poets,"  in  the  course  of  which  she  thus  describes 
Montgomery : — 

"  He  is  the  youngest  man  of  his  years  I  ever  beheld  ;  and  at  sixty  years  old 
might  pass  for  thirty— such  is  the  slightness  of  his  figure,  the  elasticity  of  his  step, 
the  smoothness  of  his  fair  brow,  the  mobility  and  playfulness  of  his  features  when 
in  conversation."  She  adds,  "  The  lighting  up  of  his  eye  when  he  is  warmed  by 
his  subject  is  absolutely  electrical." 

In  1841,  when  he  visited  Scotland,  he  was  thus  described,  in  his  sixty-fifth 
year:  "His  appearance  speaks  of  antiquity,  but  not  of  decay;  his  locks 
have  assumed  a  snowy  whiteness,  and  the  lofty  and  full-arched  coronal  region 
exhibits  what  a  brother  poet  has  well  termed  the  'clear,  bald  polish  oi  the 
honoured  head;'  the  features  are  high,  the  complexion  fresh,  though  not  ruddy; 
the  forehead  rather  compact  than  large,  with  amply-developed  organs  ot 
ideality  and  veneration."     Another  authority  says  that  the  organ  of  "  firmness     was 

deficient.  ,,      r  i,  j    •      v,;„ 

Searle     in    his    Life    of  Elliott,    describes   Montgomery   as    -  pohshed    m   his 

manners,  exquisitely  neat  in  his  personal  appearance,  while  his  bland  conversation 


92 


MEMORIES. 


rarely  rose  above  a  calm  level.  And  Southey,  in  "  The  Doctor,"  thus  refers  to 
him — sending  to  the  Christian  poet  the  greeting  of  "  one  who  admires  thee  as 
a  poet,  honours  and  respects  thee  as  a  man,  and  reaches  out  in  spirit,  at  this 
moment,  a  long  arm  to  shake  hands  with  thee  in  cordial  good-will."  The  two 
poets  never  met,  the  want  of  opportunity  being  often  regretted  by  both.  It  is 
impossible  to  think  of  two  men  who  would  have  enjoyed  each  other's  company 
more  heartily,  frankly,  and  completely — frank,  trustful,  and  conscientious  as  they 
both  were. 

William  Howitt,  who  knew  him  and  loved  him  well,  likens  Montgomery  to  the 
poet  Cowper — "  the  same  benevolence  of  heart,  the  same  modesty  of  deportment. 


THE  TOMB  OF  JAMES  MONTGOMEKY. 


the  same  purity  of  life,  the  same  attachment  to  literary  pursuits,  the  same  fondness 
for  solitude  and  retirement  from  the  public  haunts  of  men  ;  and,  to  complete  the 
picture,  the  same  ardent  feeling  in  the  cause  of  religion,  and  the  same  disposition 
to  gloom  and  melancholy."  And  thus  his  brother  poet  pictures  the  man: — 
"His  person,  which   is  rather  below  the   middle  stature,   is  neatly  formed;    his 


JOHN  HOLLAND.  93 


features  have  tlie  general  expression  of  simplicity  and  benevolence,  rendered 
more  interesting  by  a  hue  of  melancholy  that  pervades  them :  when  animated  by 
conversation,  his  eye  is  enormously  brilliant,  and  his  whole  countenance  is  full  of 
intelligence." 

Montgomery  had  many  acquaintances,  and  a  few  devoted  friends.  Foremost 
among  them  was  John  Holland,  whom  he  more  than  once  calls  a  "  good  man  and 
true."  He  was  the  poet's  loved  and  loving  friend  from  a  very  early  period,  and  to 
him  (in  conjunction  with  Mr.  Everett)  was  assigned  the  duty  of  compiling  the  life  of 
the  poet.  The  task  was  discharged  with  sound  judgment  and  nice  discrimination, 
although  with  deep  affection  and  abundant  zeal. 

In  1854  the  time  of  James  Montgomery  had  come  ;  warnings  that  the  hour  of  his 
removal  was  near  at  hand  had  been  mercifully  sent  to  him  some  time  previously  ; 
"the  labour  of  composition  made  him  ill;"  yet  his  faculties  were  all  sound,  and 
though  feeble,  he  was  not  bedridden.  On  the  last  evening  of  life  he  was  out,  and 
returned  home  "  apparently  as  usual,"  but  surprised  his  aged  companion  by  handing 
her  the  Bible,  and  saying,  "  Sarah,  you  must  read."  She  did  so;  he  knelt  down 
and  prayed,  retired  to  his  room,  and  in  the  morning  it  was  found  that  his  spirit  had 
gone  home  ;  the  tabernacle  of  his  body  was  without  inhabitant ;  the  soul  was  with 
the  Master  whose  faithful  servant  he  had  been,  and  whose  work  he  had  so  long  and 
so  well  done.  He  entered  into  the  joy  of  his  Lord  on  the  30th  April,  1854,  in  the 
eighty-third  year  of  his  age. 

Those  who  knew  him  loved  him,  and  by  all  he  was  respected  and  esteemed.  By 
the  tenor  of  his  life,  as  well  as  ever  by  his  writings,  he  advanced  the  cause  of  religion  ; 
in  example,  as  well  as  in  precept,  he  was  a  true  Christian  gentleman. 

A  fitting  monument  was  proposed  for  him  at  Sheffield,  and  John  Bell  made  a 
worthy  design.  The  estimated  cost,  however,  was  beyond  the  reach  even  of  zealous 
friends,  and  after  some  time  fruitlessly  spent,  the  same  artist  made  a  new  design, 
comprising  a  life-size  statue  of  the  poet  in  bronze,  upon  a  granite  pedestal,  containing 
a  prolix  inscription.  This  monument,  placed  over  Montgomery's  grave  in  the  Sheffield 
Cemetery,  was  inaugurated  by  a  public  demonstration,  rarely  equalled  for  the  number 
and  respectability  of  those  who  took  part  in  it,  except  at  the  funeral  of  the  great  and 
good  man  whose  name  and  virtues  are  so  deservedly  commemorated : — 

"  YoTir  monument  shall  be  your  gentle  verse 
Which  eyes  not  yel  created  shaU  o'er  read, 
And  tongues  to  he,  your  being  shall  rehearse. 
When  all  the  breathers  of  this  world  are  dead." 

John  Holland,  of  Sheffield,  the  biographer  of  James  Montgomery,  died  at  the 
ripe  old  age  of  seventy-nine.  He  too  was,  like  his  friend,  an  amiable  Christian 
gentleman.  Simple  and  quiet  in  his  habits,  lasting  and  warm  in  his  friendships, 
amiable  and  gentle  in  his  language  and  in  his  intercourse  with  men,  benevolent  and 
Christian-minded  in  every  action  of  his  long  life,  and  diligent  and  laborious  in  his 
nterary  occupations,  he  passed  away  "  without  spot  or  blemish,"  "  beloved  of  all  who 
knew  him." 


He  was  born  at  Sheffield  Park,  in  close  proximity  to  the  Manor  in  which 
Mary  Queen  of  Scots  was  so  long  confined  under  the  surveillance  of  the  Earl 
of  Shrewsbury.  For  his  home  and  birth-place,  though  humble,  and  in  which, 
throughout  his  life  to  near  its  close,  he  continued  to  reside,  he  retained  a  strong 
aifection,  and  in  one  of  his  poems,  "  Sheffield  Park,"  he  has  thus  apostrophised  it  :-— 

"  House  of  my  youth,  and  cradle  of  my  joys, 
Though  greatness  scorn,  and  wealth  or  pride  despise, 
Dearer  to  me  this  mansion  of  my  birth 
Than  all  the  prouder  structures  of  the  earth. 
When  travelled  wonder  hath  told  all  it  can, 
And  wearied  Art  exhausted  all  on  man. 
Home  stiU  is  sweet— is  still,  where'er  we  look, 
The  loveliest  picture  in  creation's  book." 

His  father  was  a  working  optician,  and  to  this  trade,  at  an  early  age,  John 
Holland  was  brought  up.  Far  in  advance  of  the  young  men  of  Sheffield  in  those 
days,  young  Holland  was  very  fond  of  reading,  and  became  a  great  favourite  with 
Mrs.  Todd  (the  wife  of  a  bookseller  of  that  name),  from  his  frequent  visits  to  her 
circulating  library — the  same  Mrs.  Todd,  in  whose  rooms  Chantrey  first  put  chisel  to 
marble.  When  quite  a  youth,  he  began,  as  many  other  less  gifted  youths  have  done, 
to  dabble  in  poetry ;  and  in  1814,  when  he  was  twenty  years  of  age,  his  first  printed 
effusions  appeared  in  the  Sheffield  Iris,  at  that  time  edited  by  his  staunch  friend  to 
the  last,  James  Montgomery.  In  1818  John  Holland  contributed,  besides  to  the 
Iris,  some  verses  to  The  Northern  Star,  or  Yorkshire  Magazine,  projected  and  edited 
by  the  late  Arthur  Jewitt,  another  of  Sheffield's  literary  worthies  ;  and  to  other 
publications.  In  1825  Montgomery  retired  from  the  proprietorship  and  editorship 
of  the  Iris,  and  John  Holland  became  its  editor.  In  1832  he  for  a  short  time 
removed  to  Newcastle  as  an  editor  of  the  Courant,  but  soon  returned  to  Sheffield, 
and  until  1848  was  one  of  the  editors  of  the  Mercury.  In  that  year  the  Mercury 
merged  into  the  Times,  and  from  that  time  to  the  day  of  his  death,  although  not 
officially  connected  with  any  journal,  he  continued  to  contribute  a  vast  number  of 
articles. 

Besides  his  innumerable  contributions  to  the  newspapers  just  named,  and  to  the 
Reliquary — to  which  he  contributed  some  valuable  papers — Mr.  Holland  was  the 
author  of  many  works  of  sterling  value  and  interest.  Among  the  more  prominent  of 
which  are,  "Memorials  of  Sir  Francis  Chantrey,"  and  the  "  Life  of  James  Mont- 
gomery." 

John  Holland  never  married.  He  lived  a  blameless,  a  happy,  a  contented  and  an 
eminently  useful  life — useful  in  more  ways  than  the  world  will  ever  know  or  dream 
of—for  he  wrote  hundreds  of  hymns  which  are  sung  in  as  many  places  of  worship, 
and  hundreds  of  sermons  for  ministers  unable  or  too  idle  to  write  them  for  them- 
selves, which  are  still  preached  to  various  congregations.  From  the  first  estabUsh- 
ment  of  the  Redhill  Sunday  Schools  in  1814,  he  became  identified  with  the  move- 
ment, and  was  one  of  the  most  useful  and  energetic  supporters  of  the  Sunday  School 
Union  which  followed.  For  fifty  years  he  was  a  member  of  the  Literary  and  Philo- 
sophical  Society  of  Sheffield,   being  one   of  its  first  founders,  and  the  last  living 


yOSIAH  CONDER.  95 


remnant  of  that  knot  of  men  who  were  its  promoters — indeed,  he  was  not  only  the 
father  of  the  Society  at  the  time  of  his  death,  but  almost  all  his  life  had  been  "  every- 
thing "  in  connection  with  it.     It  was  here  I  saw  him  more  than  once. 

Until  about  three  weeks  before  his  death,  John  Holland — with  his  spare,  active, 
lithe  frame,  dressed  with  scrupulous  neatness  in  clerical  black  with  snow-white 
cravat,  ribbon-tied  shoes,  long  white  hair,  genial  smile,  and  fervid  manner — was 
active  as  ever,  and  no  scientific  meeting,  no  "  Cutlers'  Feast,"  and  no  literary  or 
philosophical  gathering,  could  be  held  without  seeing  him  an  honoured  guest — him- 
self shedding  honour  and  lustre  on  the  assembly.  About  that  time,  while  on  his  way 
to  the  residence  of  his  beloved  friend  at  "  The  Mount,"  he  was  thrown  down  by  a 
dog  ;  the  shake  he  then  received  increased  an  internal  complaint  under  which  he 
was  suffering,  and  he  gradually  sank  until  the  28th  of  December,  when  he  passed 

away  as  calmly  as  he  had  lived. 

Only  a  short  time  before  his  death,  in  speaking  to  his  niece,  he  said,  "  I  think  no 

man  has   had  a  brighter  life  than  mine,"  and  certainly  no  man  could  have  had  a 

"  brighter  "  death  than  was  his. 

John  Holland  is  certainly  one  of  the  exceptions  to  the  rule — he  was  a  prophet 

who  did  receive  honour  in  his  own  country. 

He   was   buried  at  Handsworth,   near  Sheffield,  on   the   day  after   New  Year's 

day,  in   the   grave   where,  years  before,    he   had  laid  his  father  and  mother ;  and 

here,  it  is  hoped,  his  townsmen  and  townswomen  will  erect  a  fitting  tomb  to  his 

memory. 


One  of  the  most  esteemed  and  valued  of  the  friends  of  James  Montgomery  was 
JosiAH  CoNDER,  some  time  editor  of  the  Eclectic  Review,  and  in  his  latter  years  editor 
of  the  Patriot  newspaper.  Both  were  organs  of  the  Evangelical  (Independent) 
Dissenters.  To  the  Eclectic,  Montgomery  was  a  large  contributor;  and  among  its 
other  contributors  were  Kobert  Hall,  Dr.  Adam  Clarke,  John  Foster  (the 
Essayist),  &c. 

I  cannot  write  the  name  of  Conder  without  tendering  grateful  homage  to  his 
memory,  for  I  owe  him  much.  In  1824,  when  he  edited  the  Modem  Traveller  (a 
series  of  popular  volumes,  compilations  from  heavy,  inaccessible,  and  costly  books), 
he  engaged  me  to  write  the  "  History  of  Brazil ;  "  and  it  was  he  who  introduced  me 
to  the  publishers  Baynes  and  Son,  by  whom  I  was  engaged  to  edit  an  "  Annual," 
which  they  had  applied  to  Mr.  Conder  to  do— a  task  he  had  declined,  recommending 
me  to  the  work.  This  I  called  "  the  Amulet,  a  Christian  and  Literary  Remem- 
brancer," and  that  publication  I  edited  during  eleven  years,  until  it  was  dis- 
continued. 

I  return  to  a  Memory  of  Josiah  Conder.  His  father  was  an  engraver,  and  he  was 
born  in  London  on  the  17th  September,  1789. 

He  was  a  Nonconformist  by  hereditary  right :  his  ancestors  had  been  Dissenters 
time  out  of  mind,  and  had  sufi"ered  persecutions  for  going  their  own  way  to  God.  He 
had  the  "prayers,  example,  and  instruction"  of  several  generations  in  the  faith,  of 


96  MEMORIES. 


■which  he  was  an  uncompromising,  but  gentle  and  charitable,  advocate.*  One  of  his 
best  friends — Isaac  Taylor — bears  testimony  to  the  "  graceful  vivacity  and  attractive- 
ness of  his  manners,  his  intellectual  tastes,  his  literary  proficiency  and  acquaintedness 
with  books,  the  beauty  and  feeling  of  his  poetical  compositions,  and  the  acknowledged 
correctness  of  his  judgment."  Many  of  his  hymns  have  taken  prominent  places  in 
our  devotional  literature.! 

His  wife  also  was  an  accomplished  lady — the  daughter  of  the  renowned  sculptor, 
Eoubiliac ;  and  the  sons  have  inherited  much  of  the  intelligence  and  integrity  of  the 
father. 

He  had  lost  an  eye  by  an  attack  of  small-pox  in  childhood,  and  used  a  glass  sub- 
stitute. He  drew  consolation  from  that  apparent  affliction,  and  considered  it  the 
fountain  of  after- blessing  ;  probably  it  determined  his  course  of  life,  by  disposing  him 
to  sedentary  employment,  and  a  love  of  learning  and  books. 

I  recall  to  memory,  with  much  pleasure,  a  few  days  spent  with  him  and  his  then 
young  family  at  his  pretty  cottage  near  Watford.  It  must  have  been  so  far  back  as 
1826  or  1827.  I  found  him — and  so  report  him — as  so  many  of  his  friends  said  he 
was — a  genial  and  kindly  critic,  a  wise  counsellor,  sound  of  judgment,  generous  in 
his  religious  views,  sympathetic  with  all  who  had  anxieties  and  cares,  with  a  mind 
holy,  and  a  nature  thoroughly  upright,  thoroughly  Christian  ;  and  I  may  well  regret 
that  it  was  not  my  destiny  to  see  much  of  him  in  after-life. 

He  died  on  the  27th  December,  1856.  I  quote  the  concluding  passage  of  a 
sermon  delivered  by  Dr.  Morison  of  Knightsbridge  : — "  We  are  thankful  for  every 
remembrance  of  him,  as  of  one  who  had  in  him  much  of  the  mind  of  Christ — who 
not  only  trod  the  paths  of  literature  with  a  dignified  and  intelligent  step,  but  also 
walked  humbly  with  his  God ;  adorned  every  relation  of  human  life,  as  a  son,  a 
husband,  a  father,  and  a  friend  ;  and  whose  last  hours  were  sweetly  irradiated  by  the 
bright  shining  of  the  Sun  of  Righteousness."  \ 

The  following  verse  from  one  of  his  poems  I  am  tempted  to  quote  : — 

"  Let  Mother  Eome  the  barms  forbid, 

When  priests  in  wedlock  join  : 
Sure  Paul  might  do  as  Peter  did, 

And  Luther's  right  is  thine : 
And  we  will  keep,  in  spite  of  Eome, 
Our  wives,  our  Bibles,  and  our  home." 

*  "He  counted  it  a  great  honour  to  be  sprimg  from  a  family  in  which  piety,  as  well  as  Nonconformity,  was 
hereditary." — (Memoir  by  Eustace  R.  Conder,  M.A.) 

t  I  find  his  hymns  in  many  of  the  collections  ;  but  it  is  the  culpable  practice  of  those  who  arrange  such  collections 
for  service  in  oiu'  churches  to  ignore  altogether  tlie  names  of  the  writers  of  them.  For  example,  I  have  now  before 
me  a  volume  of  .510  Hymns,  edited  by  the  Eev.  WiUiam  Mercer,  M.A. ;  to  not  one  of  them  is  attached  the  name  ot' 
the  author.    That  is  neither  creditable  nor  wise — but  it  is  ungrateful. 

t  Two  sons  of  Josiah  Conder  inherit  the  talents  of  the  father :  one  is  a  distin  guished  Nonconformist  clergyman ; 
the  other,  Erancis  Eoubiliac  Conder,  is  the  author  of  several  valuable  books,  and  his  son  is  the  Lieutenant  Conder, 
E.E.,  whose  name  is  so  honourably  prominent  in  the  excavations  and  consequent  discoveries  now  carried  on  in  the 
Holy  Land.. 


EBENEZEE    ELLIOTT. 

HOUGH  fellow -townsmen,  there  was  little  or  no  personal 
intercourse  between  James  Montgomery  and  Ebenezer  Elliott. 
It  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  any  two  persons  more  dis- 
similar :  the  one  soft  and  pliable  as  virgin  wax,  the  other  hard 
and  unbending  as  a  slab  of  cast-iron ;  the  one  ever  laden  with 
milk  and  honey  for  his  kind,  the  other  fierce  as  a  fierce  north- 
wester, that  spares  none — raging,  sometimes,  with  indiscriminate 
wrath. 

In  1837  I  received  this  letter  from  Ebenezer  Elliott: — "I 
-was  born  at  Masbrough,  in  the  parish  of  Kimberworth,  a  village  about  five  miles 
from  this  place  (Sheffield),  on  the  17th  March,  1781  ;  but  my  birth  was  never 
registered  except  in  a  Bible,  my  father  being  a  Dissenter  and  thorough  hater  of  the 
Church  as  by  law  established  ;  "  and  not  long  afterwards  he  gave  me  some  further 
particulars  of  his  life.  There  can  be  no  reason  why  I  should  not  print  them, 
although  they  were  supplied  to  me  as  notes,  out  of  which  I  was  to  write  a  memoir 
to  accompa,ny  some  selections  of  his  poems  in  the  "  Book  of  Gems." 

H 


98  MEMORIES. 


I 


"Ebenezer  Elliott— not  ill-treated,  but  neglected  in  his  boyhood,  on  account  of  his  supposed 
inability  to  learn  anything  useful — suffered  to  go  to  school,  or  to  stay  away,  just  as  he  pleased, 
and  employ,  at  his  own  sweet  will,  those  years  which  often  leave  an  impression  on  the  future  man 
that  lasts  till  the  grave  covers  him  — listening  to  the  plain  or  coarse,  and  sometimes  brutal,  but 
more  often  instructive  and  pathetic,  conversation  of  workmen,  or  wandering  in  the  woods  and 
fields  till  he  was  thirteen  years  old — is  altogether  the  poet  of  circumstances.  The  superiority, 
mental  and  bodily,  of  his  elder  brother— though  Ebenezer  never  envied  it— cast  him  into  insig- 
nificance and  comparative  idiocy,  and  could  hardly  fail  to  throw  a  shade  of  sadness  over  a  nature 
dull  and  slow,  but  thoughtful  and  affectionate.  Sowetby's  '  English  Botany'  made  him  a  collector 
of  plants,  and  Thomson's  'Seasons'  a  versifier,  in  the  crisis  of  his  fate,  when  it  was  doubtful 
whether  he  would  become  a  man  or  a  maltworm  ;  shortly  afterwards,  or  about  which  time,  the 
curate  of  Middlesmoor — a  lonely  hamlet  in  Craven — died,  and  left  his  father  a  library  of  many 
hundred  valuable  books,  among  which  were  Father  Herepin's  '  Travels  of  M.  de  la  Salle  in 
America,'  the  Royal  llagazine,  with  coloured  plates  in  natural  history,  Ray's  '"Wisdom  of  God  in 
the  Creation,'  Derham's  '  Physico-Theology,'  Hervey's  'Meditations,'  and  Barrow's  'Sermons,' 
which  latter  author  was  a  great  favourite  with  the  future  rhymer,  he  being  then  deeply  shadowed 
over  with  a  religion  of  horrors,  and  finding  relief  in  Barrow's  reasoning  from  the  dreadful  decla- 
mation which  it  was  his  misfortune  hourly  to  hear.  To  these  books,  and  to  the  conversation  and 
amateiu'  preaching  of  his  father,  an  old  Cameronian  and  born  rebel,  who  preached  by  the  hour 
that  God  could  not  damn  him,  and  that  hell  was  hung  round  with  span-long  children — to  these 
circumstances,  and  to  the  pictures  of  Israel  Putnam,  George  Washington,  Oliver  Cromwell,  &c., 
with  which  the  walls  of  the  parlour  were  covered,  followed  by  the  events  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution and  awful  Reign  of  Terror,  may  be  clearly  traced  the  poet's  character,  literary  and  political, 
as  it  exists  at  this  moment.  Blessed  or  cursed  with  a  hatred  of  wasted  labour,  he  was  never  known 
to  read  a  bad  book  through,  but  he  has  read  again  and  again,  and  deeply  studied,  all  the  master- 
pieces of  the  mind,  original  and  translated,  and  the  masterpieces  only — a  circumstance  to  which, 
more  than  to  any  other,  he  attributes  his  success,  such  as  it  is.  He  does  not  now  know,  for  he 
never  could  learn,  grammar,  but  corrects  errors  in  composition  by  reflection,  and  often  tells  the 
learned  '  that  the  mouth  is  older  than  the  alphabet.'  There  is  not,  he  says,  a  good  thought  in  his 
works  that  has  not  been  suggested  by  some  object  actually  before  his  eyes,  or  by  some  real 
occurrence,  or  by  the  thoughts  of  other  men  ;  but  he  adds,  '  I  can  make  other  men's  thoughts 
breed.'  He  cannot,  he  says,  like  Byron,  pour  out  thoughts  from  within,  for  his  mind  is  exterior, 
'  the  mind  of  his  own  eyes.'  That  he  is  a  very  ordinary  person  (who,  by  the  earnest  study  of  the 
best  models,  has  learned  to  write  a  good  style  in  prose  and  verse)  is  proved  by  phrenology,  his 
head  being  shaped  like  a  turnip,  and  a  boy's  hat  fitting  it.  '  My  genius,'  he  says,  '  if  I  have  any, 
is  a  compound  of  earnest  perseverance,  restless  observation,  and  instinctive  or  habitual  hatred  of 
oppression.'  He  is  thought  by  many  to  be  a  coarse  and  careless  writer :  but  that  is  a  mistake. 
He  never  printed  a  careless  line.  '  Moore  himself,  with  his  instinct  of  elegant  versification,  could 
not,'  he  says,  'improve  my  roughest  Corn-Law  Rhymes.'  Of  his  political  poems,  '  They  met  in 
Heaven '  is  the  best.  The  '  Recording  Angel,'  written  on  the  final  departure  of  Sultan  George 
from  the  Harem,  is  his  best  lyric.  Of  his  long  poems, "'The  Exile'  is  the  most  pathetic. 
'"Withered  Wild  Flowers '  is  his  favourite  ;  it  is  a  perfect  epic  in  three  books,  and  the  idea  of 
telling  a  story  in  a  funeral  sermon  is  new.  But  his  masterpiece,  both  as  a  poem  and  as  a  character, 
is  the  '  Village  Patriarch,'  the  incarnation  of  a  century  of  changes  and  misrule,  on  which  he  has 
stamped  his  individuality.  The  critics  say  he  succeeds  best  in  lyric  poetry  ;  he  thinks  he  ought 
to  have  written  a  national  epic,  and  if  he  had  time  he  would  yet  make  the  attempt.  He  thinks 
also  there  is  merit  in  his  dramatic  sketch  of  '  Kehonah,'  particularly  in  the  character  of  Nidariui, 
and  the  dramatic  introduction  of  the  supposed  executioner  of  King  Charles." 

So  far  his  personal  history  is  given  in  his  letter  to  me. 

The  ancestors  of  Ebenezer  ElHott  were  "  canny  Elhotts  "  of  the  Border,  whose 
"  derring  deeds  "  were  warning  proverbs  in  the  debatable  land :  border  thieves  they 
were,  who  "  lived  on  the  cattle  they  stole."  His  father — who,  from  his  eccentricities 
and  ultra  "  religious  "  views,  was  named  "  Devil  Elliott  " — had  been  apprenticed  to  an 
ironmonger  at  Newcastle-upon-Tyne,  after  which  he  became  a  clerk  in  the  celebrated 
cannon  foundry  of  Messrs.  Walker,  at  Masbrough,  near  Rotherham.  He  soon  left 
that  situation,  and  went  as  a  servant  to  the  "  New  Foundry,"  in  the  same  town ; 
and  there  the  poet  was  born,  and  baptized  either  by  his  father  or  by  "  one  Tommy 


Wright,"  a  Barnsley  tinker  and  brother  Berean.  Ebenezer  was  one  of  seven  children 
three  sons  and  four  daughters,  of  a  father  bearing  the  same  baptismal  name.  His 
first  book  lessons,  after  those  of  his  mother,  were  with  a  Unitarian  schoolmaster  of 
the  name  of  Ramsbottom,  of  whom  he  has  made  grateful  mention  in  one  of  his 
poems.  But  he  had  the  anxiety  of  a  curious  and  ingenious  child  to  see  something  of 
the  world  beyond  the  foundry  and  his  teacher's  garden. 

"My  ninth  year,"  says  he,  in  a  letter  I  copy,  "  was  an  era  in  my  life.  My  falher  had  cast  a 
great  pan,  we.ghmg  some  tons,  for  my  uncle  at  Thurlstone,  and  I  determined  to  go  SitheVL  it 
^ithout  acquamting  my  parents  wnh  my  intention.  A  truck  with  assistants  having  heen  sen?  fo^ 
It,  I  got  into  It,  about  sunset,  nnperceived,  hiding  myself  beneath  some  h.y  which  it  contain ed 
'TfZ\flT^i  T  T  i"^"7-  ^  ^";f  ?°'  ^'^^S-otten  how  much  I  was  exdted  bv  the  solemnl'y 
of  the  night  and  its  shooting  stars,  until  I  arrived  at  Thurlstone  about  four  in  the  morninT  I 
had  not  been  there  many  days  before  I  wished  myself  at  home  again,  for  my  heart  was  S  my 
mother.     If  I  could  haye  found  my  way  back  I  should  certainly  haye  returned,  and  my  rnabiSy 


cJ^C^MJ^^^^yOy/ 1^^ 


to  do  so  shows,  I  think,  that  I  really  must  have  been  a  dull  child.  My  uncle  sent  me  to  Penistone 
school,*  where  I  made  some  little  progress.  When  I  got  home  from  school  I  spent  my  evenino-a 
m  looking  from  the  back  of  my  uncle's  house  to  Hayland  Swaine,  for  I  had  discovered  that 
Masbrough  lay  beyond  that  village ;  and  ever  when  the  sun  went  down  I  felt  as  if  some  great 
wrong  had  been  done  me.  At  length,  in  about  a  year  and  a  half,  my  father  came  for  me  ;  and  so 
ended  my  first  irruption  into  the  great  world.  Is  it  not  strange  that  a  man  who  from  his  child- 
hood has  dreamed  of  visiting  foreign  countries,  and  yet,  at  the  age  of  sixty,  believes  that  he  shall 
see  the  Falls  of  Niagara,  has  never  been  twenty  miles  out  of  England,  and  has  yet  to  see  for  the 
tirst  time  the  beautiful  scenery  of  Cumberland,  Wales,  and  Scotland  ?" 

His  dream  of  visiting  America  was  never  realised. 

But  school  days  with  Elliott,  as  with  his  more  or  less  hopeful  companions,  came 
to  an  end ;  the  iron-casting  shop  awaited  him,  and  from  his  sixteenth  to  his  twenty- 
third  year  he  worked  for  his  father,  "  hard  as  any  day-labourer,  and  without  wages." 

*  The  house  is  still  standing  at  Thurlstone  in  ■which  was  bom,  in  16S2,  the  celebrated  blind  mathematician. 
Dr.  Nicholas  Sanderson,  who  learned  to  read  by  feeling  the  letters  on  the  gravestones  in  the  churchyard  of  the 
adjacent  town  of  Penistone. 

H    2 


MEMORIES. 


According  to  his  own  account,  lie  had  been  a  dull  and  idle  boy,  but  poetry, 
instead  of  nourishing  his  faults,  stimulated  him  to  industry  as  well  as  thought.  Thus, 
while  his  earlier  days  were  spent  amid  the  disheartening  influences  of  an  ascetic 
home  and  defective  education,  nature  not  only  spoke  to  his  senses,  but  worked  within 
him, — 

"  His  books  were  rivers,  woods,  and  skies, 
The  meadow  and  the  moor." 

In  all  his  sentiments  and  sympathies,  from  first  to  last,  he  was  emphatically 
one  of  the  people,  illustrating  his  whole  life  long,  by  precept  and  example, 

"  The  nobility  of  labour,  the  long  pedigree  of  toil.'' 

How  far,  or  whether  at  all,  the  tastes  of  the  son  were  influenced  in  any  way 
favourably  by  those  of  the  father,  who  was  spoken  of  under  an  ugly  appellation, 
does  not  appear ;  but  it  is  worthy  of  remark  that  the  elder  Elliott  himself  was 
a  rhymester.  "In  1792,"  says  Mr.  Holland,  in  his  "Poets  of  Yorkshire,"  "he 
published  a  '  Poetical  Paraphrase  of  the  Book  of  Job.'  " 

Long  afterwards,  Ebenezer,  in  writing  of  his  father,  says, —  "Under  the  room 
where  I  was  born,  in  a  little  parlour  like  the  cabin  of  a  ship,  which  was  yearly 
painted  green,  and  blessed  with  a  beautiful  thoroughfare  of  light — for  there  was  no 
window  tax  in  those  days — my  father  used  to  preach,  every  fourth  Sunday,  to 
persons  who  came  from  distances  of  twelve  to  fourteen  miles  to  hear  his  tremendous 
doctrines  of  ultra- Calvinism.  On  other  days,  pointing  to  the  aqua-tint  pictures  on 
the  walls,  he  delighted  to  declaim  on  the  virtues  of  slandered  Cromwell  and  of 
Washington  the  rebel." 

It  is  not  material,  in  this  brief  notice  of  the  "  Corn-Law  Rhymer,"  to  trace  him 
from  his  father's  foundry,  at  Masbrough,  to  his  own  shop,  as  a  steel-seller,  m 
Sheffield,  nor  to  describe  his  earliest  efforts  in  verse.  His  poem  of  "  Love"  attracted 
no  attention  from  readers  of  any  class;  while  his  "Night" — the  scene  of  which  is 
the  picturesque  spot  identified  with  the  legend  of  "The  Dragon  of  Wantley  "— was 
declared  by  one  reviewer  to  be  "in  the  very  worst  style  of  ultra-German  bombast 
and  horror  !  "  But  his  taste  rapidly  improved,  and  that — strange  as  it  may  appear 
— under  the  stimulus  of  the  intensest  Radical  politics.  There  was,  in  fact,  a  touch 
of  the  morbid  in  his  temperament — a  dramatic  taste  for  the  horrible  in  fiction — as 
witness  his  own  "  Bothwell  " — with  a  special  dislike  of  hereditary  pride  or  grandeur. 
But  though  almost  insane  in  his  denunciation  of  the  aristocracy,  and  absolutely  rabid 
at  times,  both  in  his  conversation  and  his  writings,  there  was  in  his  heart  an  innate 
love  of  the  graceful  and  the  beautiful  in  nature  ;  the  fiercer  passions  evaporated  m  a 
green  lane,  and  wrath  was  effectually  subdued  by  the  gentle  breezes  of  the  hill-side. 
His  strongly-marked  countenance  bespoke  deep  and  stern  thought;  his  pale  grey 
eyes,  restless  activity ;  his  every  look  and  motion  indicated  an  enthusiastic  tem- 
perament;  his  overhanging  brow  was  stern,  perhaps  forbidding;  but  the  lower 
portions  of  his  face  betokened  mildness  and  benevolence ;  and  his  smile,  when  not 
sarcastic,  was  a  most  sweet  and  redeeming  grace. 


EBENEZER   ELLIOTT. 


'  The  meanest  thing,  earth's  feeblest  worm, 

He  feared  to  scorn  or  hate, 
But  honouring  in  a  peasant's  form 
The  equal  of  the  great." 


William  Howitt  describes  him  as  "  one  of  the  gentlest  and  most  tender-hearted  of 
men  ;  "  yet  his  mind  seemed  incapable  of  reasoning  when  the  higher  orders  of  society- 
were  praised :  he  could  not  tolerate  even  the  dehcate  hint  of  Mr.  Howitt,  that 
'-^  among  them  were  some  amiable  men."  He  at  once  "blazed  up,"  exclaiming 
furiously,  "Amiable  men  ! — amiable  robbers,  thieves,  murderers  !  " 

Yes,  on  that  subject  he  was  absolutely  insane.  The  stern,  bitter,  irrational,  and 
unnatural  hatred  was  the  staple  of  his  poetry— the  greater  part  of  it,  that  is  to  say ; 
for  many  of  his  poems  are  as  tender,  loving,  and  pure  as  are  those  of  his  fellow- 
townsman,  gracious  James  Montgomery. 

I  have  quoted  four  lines  from  one  of  his  poems:  this  passage  is  from  another. 
He  is  describing  some  mountain  scenery  conspicuous  for  desolate  sterility : — 

....  "I  thank  ye,  bUlows  of  a  granite  sea, 

That  the  bribed  plough,  defeated,  halts  below ; 

And  thanks,  majestic  barrenness,  to  thee 

For  one  grim  region,  in  a  land  of  woe, 

Where  tax-sown  wheat  and  paupers  will  not  grow." 

Comparatively  little  was  known  of  the  vast  poetical  power  of  Ebenezer  Elliott 
until  1831,  when  an  article  in  the  New  Monthly  Magazine  (then  under  my  editorship), 
from  the  pen  of  Lord  Lytton,  directed  public  attention  to  his  genius. 

It  was  Dr.  (Sir  John)  Bowring  who  showed  to  Lord  Lytton  a  mean-looking  and 
badly-printed  pamphlet  called  "  The  Ranter."  He  was  struck  with  it,  and  sent  to  me 
a  review  of  the  work  in  a  letter  addressed  to  the  Poet-Laureate, — directing  his  atten- 
tion to  the  "mechanic"  as  one  of  the  "uneducated  poets"  whom  Southey  had  so 
often  folded  under  his  wings.  Its  publication  gave  the  Sheffield  poet  a  wider  renown 
than  he  had  previously  obtained,  but  it  did  no  more.  Lord  Lytton  wrongly  described 
him,  as  others  had  done,  as  a  "  mechanic  :"  he  was  not  then  aware  that  many  years 
previously  Elliott  had  been  in  correspondence  with  Southey,  who  fully  appreciated 
the  rough  genius  of  the  poet.*  Neither  did  Lord-  Lytton  then  know  that  Elliott  had 
published  several  beautiful  poems  in  certain  periodical  works — the  Amulet  among 
others,  in  which  one  of  the  most  perfect  of  his  compositions,  "The  Dying  Boy  to 
the  Sloe-blossom,"  appeared  in  1830. 

Afterwards  Elliott  became  a  regular  contributor  to  the  New  Monthly  Magazine, 
and  for  that  work  he  wrote  many  of  his  best  poems. 

His  friend,  Mr.  Searle,  describes  him  personally  : — "  Instead  of  being  a  true  son 
of  the  forget — broad-set,  sti-ong,  and  muscular  as  a  Cyclops — he  was  the  reverse. 

'  Southey,  in  one  of  his  letters,  laughs  over  the  idea  of  "  Mr.  Bulwer  Lytton  "  thus  recommending  to  his  notice  an 
uneducated  poet  whom  he  had  long  known  and  respec'"ed,  and  with  whom"  he  had  frequently  corresponded.  Elliott, 
indeed,  said  of  Southey,  "that  it  was  Southey  who  taught  him  the  art  of  poetry."  They  had  con-esponded  so  far 
back  as  1811.  In  1819  Southey  acknowledges  the  receipt  of  EUiott's  poem  "  Night,"  "which  contains  abundant 
evidence  of  power,  but  with  defects  no  less  striking,  in  plan  and  execution."  Southey,  writing  in  1836,  says :— "  I 
mean  (in  the  Quarterly)  to  read  the  Corn-Law  Ehymer  a  lectm-e,  not  without  some  hope  (though  faint)  that,  as  I 
taught  him  the  art  of  poetry,  I  may  teach  him  something  better." 

+  This  mistake  was  common,  and  did  the  poet  no  harm.  That  he  knew  how  to  use  a  hammer  was  true  enough  ; 
but  his  townspeople  were  not  a  little  amused  to  be  told  in  print  that  the  house  of  the  "  Corn-Law  Ehymer  "  wa« 
"  Bnrrounded  by  iron  palisades  which  had  been  forged  on  the  an\-il  by  his  own  brawny  arm  I  " 


In  stature  he  was  not  more  than  five  feet  six  inches  high,  of  a  slender  make,  and  a 
bilious,  nervous  temperament ;  his  hair  was  quite  grey,  and  his  eyes,  which  were  of 
a  greyish  blue,  were  surmounted  by  thick  brushy  brows.  ,  His  forehead  was  not 
broad,  but  rather  narrow ;  and  his  head  was  small.  There  was  great  pugnacity  in 
the  mouth,  especially  when  he  was  excited  ;  but  in  repose,  it  seemed  to  smile,  more- 
in  consciousness  of  strength,  however,  than  in  sunny  unconscious  beauty.  His 
nostrils  were  full  of  scorn,  and  his  eyes,  which  were  the  true  indices  of  his  soul — 
literally  smote  you  with  fire,  or  beamed  with  kindness  and  aff"ection,  according  to  the 
mood  he  was  in.  In  earnest  debate  his  whole  face  was  lighted  up,  and  became 
terrible  and  tragic." 

He  describes  himself,  however,  as  five  feet  seven  inches  in  height;  slimly  rather 
than  strongly  made  ;  eyes  dim  and  pale,  mostly  kind  in  their  expression,  but  som©-; 
times  wild;  his  features  harsh,  but  not  unpleasing :  "on  the  whole,"  he  says,  "he 
is  just  the  man  who,  if  unknown,  would  pass  unnoticed  anywhere." 

He  is  thus  graphically  sketched  by  Southey  : — "  It  was  a  remarkable  face,  with 
pale  grey  eyes,  full  of  fire  and  meaning,  and  well  suited  to  a  frankness  of  manner 
and  an  apparent  simplicity  of  character  such  as  is  rarely  found  in  middle  age,  and 
more  especially  rare  in  persons  engaged  in  what  may  be  called  the  warfare  of  the 
world." 

The  one  great  blemish  of  Elliott's  poetry,  in  the  estimation  of  general  readers,  is- 
the  frequent  introduction  of  that  subject  which,  with  him,  was  more  than  a  senti- 
ment— an  absorbing  and  over-mastering  passion — the  direct  theme  of  some  of  his 
most  spirited  lyrics,  the  topic  of  his  common  conversation  no  less  than  the  spell  of 
his  genius,  and  in  pursuance  of  which  he  adopted  the  significant  appellation  of  the 
"  Corn-Law  Rhymer."  This  subject,  it  need  scarcely  be  added,  while  it  was  the 
mainspring  of  his  popularity  with  one  party  of  political  economists,  including  all  the 
working  men  of  his  day,  was,  at  the  same  time,  still  more  powerful  in  exciting  the 
dislike  of  other  classes  of  the  community,  and  especially  all  those  connected  with  the 
agricultural  interest.  This  position  of  personal  as  well  as  poetical  hostility  towards 
a  large,  wealthy,  influential,  and  respectable  section  of  his  countrymen  was  rendered 
less  enviable  by  the  genei'al  bitterness  of  style  and  harshness  of  epithet  by  which  his 
"rhymes"  were  but  too  commonly  characterised.  But  "gentle  arguments  are  not 
suited  for  stern  work  :  "  while,  therefore,  it  is  impossible  to  read  many  of  his  most 
powerful  pieces  without  a  mixture  of  admiration  for  the  skill  of  the  poet,  and  of 
regret  for  the  violence  of  the  partisan,  it  should  not  be  forgotten  that  much  of  the 
interest  of  these  compositions  has  passed  away,  by  the  signal  triumphs  of  the  doctrine 
which  they  originally  illustrated  and  enforced.  For,  whatever  may  be  the  opinions 
entertained  at  this  moment  by  any  person  or  party  in  this  country  relative  to  the 
abolition  of  the  Corn  Laws,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  popular  and  energetic 
struggle  which  preceded  that  event  was  effectually  aided  by  the  genius  of  Ebenezer 
Elliott, 

On  the  other  hand,  let  it  not  be  imagined  that  Ebenezer  Elliott  was  made  a 
victim,  or  made  himself  a  martyr,  of  the  "bread  tax,"  otherwise  than  in  his 
rhymes  :  "  he  was,  in  fact,  a  shrewd,  active,  and  successful  man  of  business  ;  and 


EBENEZER   ELLIOTT. 


103 


notwithstanding  he  tells  us,  in  terms  which  formed  so  long  and  so  loudly  the  burden 
of  his  song,  that 

"  Dear  sugar,  dear  tea,  and  dear  com. 
Conspired  with  dear  representation 
To  laugh  worth  and  honour  to  scorn. 
And  beggar  the  whole  British  nation," 

he  was  fortunate  enough  to  outmatch  the  "  four  dears,"  as  he  calls  them— to  give  up 
business— to  leave  Sheffield  for  the  enjoyment  of  a  country  retreat,  in  a  good  house 
of  his  own  at  Hargot  Hill,  in  the  vicinity  of  Barnsley.  But  an  insidious  complaint 
was  slowly,  yet  surely,  arresting  his  vital  powers.  He  "  departed  this  life  "  on  the 
1st  of  December,  1849,  and  is  buried  in  the  churchyard  of  the  beautiful  little  village 
of  Darfield.*     The  church  may  be  seen  from  the  house  in  which  he  died. 

It  was  not  by  his  own  desire  he  was  laid  in  consecrated  ground.  Not  long 
before  his  death  he  pointed  out  to  a  friend  a  tree  in  one  of  the  pleasant  dells  that 
environ  black  and  busy  Sheffield,  and  said,  "  Under  this  tree  I  mean  to  be  buried. 
I  shall  sleep  well  enough  here  ;  and  who  knows  but  I  may  feel  the  daisies  growing 
over  my  grave,  and  hear  the  birds  sing  to  me  in  my  winding-sheet  ?  "  He  was 
dying,  when  his  faculties  were  suddenly  roused  by  a  robin  singing  in  the  garden 
underneath  his  chamber  window.  He  had  strength  enough  to  write  these  lines — 
they  were  his  last  : — 

"  Thy  notes,  sweet  robin,  soft  as  dew. 
Heard  soon  or  late,  are  dear  to  me ; 
To  music  I  could  bid  adieu, 
'  But  not  to  thee. 

When  from  my  eyes  this  lifefull  throng 
Has  pass'd  away,  no  more  to  be, 
Then,  autumn's  primrose,  robin's  song. 
Return  to  me." 

His  character  is  thus  summed  up  by  his  friend,  Mr.  Searle  : — "■  He  was  a  far- 
seeing,  much- enduring,  hard-working,  practical  man  ;  he  had  a  stern  love  of  truth, 
and  a  high  and  holy  comprehension  of  justice  ;  he  appreciated  the  sufferings  of  the 
poor,  and  if  he  exaggerated,  he  thoroughly  sympathised  with,  their  wrongs."  His 
life,  indeed,  seems  to  have  been  governed  in  conformity  with  one  of  his  own  lines  : — • 

"  So  live  that  thou  mayst  smile  and  no  one  weep." 

He  was  a  good  citizen  and  a  good  member  of  societj^  ;  "  there  was  not  a  blot  or 
flaw  upon  his  character;"  he  was  regular  at  his  business;  careful  of  all  home 
duties  ;  a  dutiful  son,  an  attached  husband,  a  fond,  but  considerate,  father  ;t  and  it 

•  The  village  of  Darfield  is  nearly  a  mile  from  its  railway  station,  on  the  North  Midland  Une.  The  chui'ch, 
equally  plain  in  its  design  and  aicliitecture,  looks  pretty  at  a  distance,  from  its  elevated  situation,  and  the  group  of 
fine  trees  with  which  it  is  flanked.  The  lower  contains  a  peal  of  very  musical  bells,  the  ringing  of  which  is  duly 
appreciated  by  the  inhabitants  of  the  valley  of  the  Deane.  The  grave  of  the  "  Corn-Law  Rhymer"  is  unmarked, 
except  by  a  plain  stone,  nearly  level  with  the  grass,  and  thus  inscribed  lengthwise  :—"  Ebenezer  Elliott,  died 
December  1,  1849,  aged  68  years."  On  the  other  half  of  the  stone,  "  Fanny  Elliott,  his  wife,  died  December  4,  1856, 
aged  75  years."  A  plain  gravestone  adjoining  bears  "Sacred  to  the  memory  of  John  Watkius,  late  of  Loudon,  Son 
of  Francis  and  Christiana  Watkins,  of  Whitby,  and  Son-in-law  of  Ebenezer  Elliott,  who  died  Sept.  22,  1850,  aged 
40  years."  It  may  be  mentioned  that  in  this  secluded  churchyard  there  is  a  conspicuous  obelisk,  which,  as  we 
leai'n  from  an  inscription  on  the  pedestal,  was  "  Erected  to  commemorate  the  Sundhill  (Colliery)  Explosion  of 
Feb.  9,  1852,  in  which  192  men  and  boys  lost  their  lives,  of  whose  bodies  146  are  buried  near  this  place." 

.+  .He  had  six  sons  and  two  daughters  :  the  younger  of  them  married  John  Watkins,  who  published  a  very 
nteresting  volume  comprising  "  The  Life,  Poeti-y,  and  Letters  of  Elliott."  Two  of  his  sons  became  clergj-men  oi 
the -Established  Church  :  two  conducted  for  a  time  the  old  business  at  Sheffield. 


I04 


MEMORIES. 


1 


is  gratifying  to  record  his  own  testimony  to  his  faith,  "  Having  studied  the 
evidence  on  both  sides  of  the  question,  1  am  a  Christian  from  conviction."  It  will 
hardly  be  expected  that  the  religious  character  of  any  person  which  is  merely 
announced  in  terms  similar  to  those  just  quoted  would  find  its  practical  expression 
in  conformity  with  the  creed  of  any  sect  or  section  of  the  Christian  Church.  The 
truth  is,  the  best  friends  or  worst  enemies  of  the  poet  were  never  able  to  reckon 
among  his  ostensible  virtues  or  prejudices  a  regular  Sunday  attendance  at  any  place 
of  public  worship,  nor  even  to  report  him  as  a  casual  hearer  of  his  own  exemplary 
"  Ranter  "  preacher,  with  his  favourite  text — 

"  Woe  be  unto  you,  Scribes  and  Pharisees ! 
Who  eat  the  widows'  and  the  orphans'  bread, 
And  make  long  prayers  to  hide  your  villainies ;  " 


THE  BUfilAL-PLACE  OF  EBENEZER  ELLIOTT. 


The  religious  as  well  as  the  political  opinions  of  the  poet  are  fully  and  fairly 
presented  in  his  two  principal  w^orks,  "  The  Village  Patriarch  "  and  "  The  Ranter  ;" 
the  former  a  witness  and  victim  of  a  progressive  and  culminating  "  monopoly,"  the 
latter  an  out-door  "  preacher  of  the  plundered  poor."  Whatever  may  be  thought  of 
the  special  and  direct  sentiments  and  design  of  these  compositions,  they  both  contain 
incidental  descriptions  of  local  scenery  Avhich  may  be  said  to  be  unsurpassed  in  truth 
and  beauty  of  expression. 

Thus  writes  Montgomery  of  his  "  brother  poet :  "-^"  I  am  willing  to  hazard  my 
critical  credit  by  avowing  my  persuasion  that  in  originality,  power,  and  even  beauty 

when  he  chose  to  be  beautiful— he  might  have  measured  heads  beside  Byron  in 

tremendous  energy,  Crabbe  in  graphic  description,  and  Coleridge  in  effusions  of 


■ 


EBENEZER   ELLtOTT.  105 


domestic  tenderness  ;  while  in  intense  sympathy  with  the  poor,  in  whatever  he 
deemed  their  wrongs  or  their  sufferings,  he  excelled  them  all,  and  perhaps  everybody 
else  among  his  contemporaries  in  prose  or  verse." 

He  was,  "  in  a  transcendental  sense,  the  poet  of  the  poor  :  "  he  (the  lines  are 
those  of  Walter  Savage  Landor) — 

"  asked  the  rich 
To  give  laborious  hunger  daily  bread." 

According  to  the  testimony  of  one  who  knew  him  well,  Elliott's  attempts  at 
oratory  were  failures.  Sententious,  rugged,  sarcastic,  and  loud,  his  hearers  were 
'more  entertained  with  his  excitement  than  either  instructed  by  his  statements  or 
convinced  by  his  reasoning.  In  a  word,  his  oral  declamations  generally  lacked  that 
charm  of  orderly  arrangement  and  those  well-tuned,  not  to  say  exquisite,  graces  of 
style,  which  so  largely  characterise  his  poetical  essays,  even  when  wilfully  dashed 
and  marred  by  vile  epithets  or  coarse  personalities.  In  his  private  conversation, 
when  crossed  and  excited  by  opposition,  these  faults  would  sometimes  break  out ; 
otherwise  he  was  mild  and  amiable,  always  frank  and  unselfish,  admitting  his  own 
faults,  or  those  of  his  partisans,  as  freely  as  those  of  his  opponents. 

I  print  the  following  as  one  of  the  few  of  his  characteristic  letters  I  have  had 
the  good  fortune  to  preserve  : — 

"  Sheffield,  %th  December,  1836. 
"  I  have  a  great  favour  to  ask  of  j'ou,  a  favour  which,  on  my  knees,  I  implore  you  to  grant. 
If  you  do  not  grant  it,  you  will  miss  an  opportiinity  of  honouring  the  New  Monthly,  by  taking  an 
entirely  new  view  of  the  most  important  subject  that  ever  agitated  the  public  mind.  My  request 
is,  that  you  will  publish  in  your  forthcoming  number  the  inclosed  article,  written  and  extracted 
by  a  friend  of  the  author  from  the  proof-sheets  of  his  unpublished  book,  entitled  'Agricultural 
Distress,  its  Causes  and  Remedy.'  dedicated  to  the  labouring  people  of  England,  and  published 
by  Effingham  Wilson,  London.  The  author  is  William  Ibbotson  of  Sheffield,*  merchant,  farmer, 
and  Methodist — one  of  a  sect  which,  he  says,  numbers  or  powerfully  influences  four  millions  of 
human  beings  in  Great  Britain.  It  is  seldom  that  men  of  business  like  '  the  Manchester  manu- 
facturer '  can  be  induced  to  write  books  on  any  subject.  When  they  do  so,  it  is  important  that 
they  be  encouraged,  because  their  experience  and  knowledge  almost  always  enable  them  to  write 
well.  Mr.  Ibbotson  has  demonstrated  by  facts  that  the  Com  Laws  are  the  cause  of  agricultural 
distress,  and  that  free  trade  would  raise  rents,  and  permanently  keep  up  agricultural  prices,  and 
that  nothing  else  can  do  so.  It  is  desirable  that  the  article  appear  in  the  forthcoming  number,  to 
give  the  well-timed  book  a  shove,  and  prevent  the  discouraging  of  an  author  from  whom  great 
things  may  be  expected.  You  will  soon  perceive  that  Mr.  Ibbotson  is  not  used  to  composition  ; 
but  his  book,  in  my  opinion,  is  the  most  important  ever  published  on  the  subject,  although  the 
view  he  takes  of  it  is  opposed  to  mine.  I  shall  be  in  most  painful  suspense  until  you  inform  me 
that  you  will  publish  the  article,  or  write  one  from  the  documents  inclosed.  Unless  you  are  false 
to  yourself,  and  deficient  for  once  in  good  strategy,  you  cannot,  as  a  friend  of  the  agricultural 
nterest,  refuse  the  favour  I  request. 

"I  am,  dear  Sir,  yours  very  truly, 

"  Ebenezer  Elliott." 

John  Holland,  the  friend  of  James  Montgomery,  who  knew  Elliott  intimately, 
writes,  "Than  whom  a  truer  poet  did  not  breathe  the  air  or  enjoy  the  sunshine 
among  the  masses  of  fermenting  intellect  in  England  at  this  period  ;  but  a  tone  of 

*  Mr.  Ibbotson,  "  the  thirteen -chUded  patriot,"  as  Elliott  onoe  caUed  him  at  a  public  meeting,  was  an  active 
poUtician  and  a  worthy  man.  He  was  a  firm  and  zealous  friend  of  James  Silk  Buckingham,  \^ose  return  to  i^ar- 
fiament,  as  one  of  the  first  representatives  of  the  borough  of  Sheffield  after  the  passmg  of  the  Reform  aiu  in  isdA 
was  largely  due  to  the  personal  energy  and  popular  influence  of  the  worthy  merchant,  farmer,  and  Metnooisx. 


io6 


MEMORIES. 


1 


political  bitterness,  in  the  occasional  use  of  the  coarsest  terms  of  party  vituperation, 
too  often  tended  to  mar  the  beauty  of  compositions  otherwise  rarely  surpassed  for 
their  truth,  for  their  power,  or  their  tenderness,  by  the  strains  of  his  most  richly- 
gifted  contemporaries." 

His   Corn-Law  Rhymes   are   now  probably  forgotten,  but  they  did  much  of  the 
work  which  the  reformers  of  1830-35  achieved  ;  they  prepared  the  ground  for  the 
harvest ;  nay,  they  did  more — they  planted  the  seed. 
■    These  poems  were,  indeed,  what  the  trumpets  were  by  the  walls  of  Jericho. 

So  far  back  as   1809,  Southey  (to  whom  Elliott  had  submitted  a  MS.  poem) 
wrote  to  him  thus  : — "  There  are  in  this  poem  unquestionable  marks  both  of  genius 


KLLIUTt's    MUNUJXKXT   in    the    (JOKN    JlAhKET.  ■" 

and  the  power  of  expressing  it."     ''  I  have  no  doubt   you  will  succeed  in  attaining 
the  fame  after  which  you  aspire  ;  "   adding,  "  Go  on,  and  you  will  prosper." 

Notwithstanding  their  many  faults— and  they  are  many— we  must  class  the  poems 
of  Ebenezer  ElUott  with  those  of  the  highest  and  most  enduring  of  British  poets. 
Among  them  there  are  many  glorious  and  true  transcripts  of  nature,  full  of  pathos 
and  beauty,  vigorous  and  original  in  thought,  and  clear,  eloquent,  and  impassioned  in 
language.  If  his  feelings,  though  at  times  kindly  and  gentle,  are  more  often  dark, 
menacing,  and  stern,  they  are  never  grovelling  or  low.  He  had  keen  and  burning 
sympathies.  Unhappily  he  forgot  that  the  high-born  and  wealthy  claim  them  and 
deserve  them  as  well  as  the  poor,  and  those  who  are  more  directly  "  bread-taxed 
that  suffering  is  common  to  humanity. 


■ 


JOHN  CLARE.  lo? 

Although  it  was  my  lot  to  differ  frcm  him  upon  nearly  every  subject  on  which  w© 
corresponded  or  conversed,  I  honour  the  name  of  Ebenezer  Elliott  as  that  of  an 
earnest  and  honest  man,  and  I  have  greeted  with  fervid  homage  the  statue  of  the 
poet  erected  to  his  memory— on  the  site  of  the  old  Corn  Market— in  the  town  of 
Sheffield. 

John  Claee  was  that  which,  I  have  shown,  Ebenezer  Elliott  was  not — an  "  un- 
educated "  poet.  I  was  not  acquainted  with  Eobert  Bloomfield,  who,  somewhat 
before  my  time,  "made  a  name"  and  attracted  "patronage."  He  is  now  almost 
forgotten  :   "  The  Farmer's  Boy  "  is  covered  with  dust  on  the  book-shelves.* 

Poor  John  Clare  !  His  posthumous  fame  is  not  greater  than  that  of  Bloomfield, 
but  his  destiny  in  life  was  less  auspicious.  He  was  born  "a  Northamptonshire 
peasant."  Happier  would  it  have  been  for  him  if,  from  his  birth  to  his  death,  his 
aim  had  been  no  higher  than  to  win  honours  at  a  ploughing  match.f 

A  transitory  renown  was  given  him  when,  in  1820,  his  first  book  of  poems  was 
printed.  He  was  much  "  talked  about ;  "  the  Quarterly  Reideiv  praised  him  ;  Rossini 
set  his  verses  to  music  ;  and  Vestris  sung  them.  During  a  brief  visit  to  the  metropolis 
he  was  made  a  lion  in  certain  small  coteries ;  his  transitory  glory  was  succeeded  by 
utter  and  withering  neglect ;  he  was  consigned  to  a  poverty  he  had  been  taught  to 
abhor ;  and  in  1864  he  died  in  the  lunatic  asylum  of  the  town  with  which  his  name 
is  inseparably  associated. _  He  was  an  aged  man  at  his  death,  having  been  born  at 
Helpstoce  in  1793. 

I  knew  him — poor  fellow ! — in  1826  or  1827,  and  printed  in  the  Amulet  some  of 
the  best  of  his  poems — notably,  "  Mary  Lee."  But,  unhappily,  I  was  ignorant  of  the 
untoward  circumstances  in  which  he  was  placed.  At  a  later  period,  introducing  some 
of  his  poems,  with  a  brief  memoir  of  him,  into  the  "Book  of  Gems"  (1838),  I 
detailed  the  sad  story  of  his  life.  I  described  him  as  living  in  penury,  if  not  want ; 
with  no  other  prospect  for  old  age  but  that  which  he  gloomily  forboded  in  one  of  his 
early  poems, — 

"  To  claim,  the  early  pittance  once  a  week. 
Which  justice  forces  from  disdainful  pride  ;  " 

and  I  appealed  for  some  help  that  might  diminish  his  desolation — writing,  "  It  is  not 
yet  too  late  :  although  he  has  given  indications  of  a  brain  breaking  up,  a  very  envied 
celebrity  may  be  obtained  by  some  wealthy  and  good  Samaritan  who  would  rescue 
him  from  the  Cave  of  Despair ;  "  adding,  "  Strawberry  Hill  might  be  gladly  sacrificed 
for  the  fame  of  having  saved  Chatterton  !  " 

That  appeal  brought  to  me  a  letter  from  the  Marquis  of  Northampton.  His  lord- 
ship intimated  that  though  he  did  not  think  very  highly  of  Clare,  he  considered  it 
would  be  a  disgrace  to  the  county  of  Northampton  "  to  leave  him  in  the  state  in 

*  There  is  a  grandson  of  Eobert  Bloomfleld  living— moreover,  he  is  an  author — one  who,  I  believe,  Lives  chiefly 
as  an  occasional  writer  for  the  pres?,  and  who  is  not  in  "prosperous  "  circumstances. 

t  The  story  of  his  sad  life  has  been  lately  told  by  Mr.  Fi'ederick  Martin,  in  a  very  interesting  and  ably  written 
volume,  published  by  Macmillan.  Mr.  Martin  has  done  ample  justice  to  his  theme,  wi'iting  in  a  tender,  lovinif, 
and  thoroughly  appreciative  spirit. 


which  I  had  represented  him  to  be  ;  "  and  suggested  the  publication  of  a  volume  of 
his  poems,  of  which  he  himself  would  take  ten  or  twenty  copies  !  The  plan  was  not 
carried  out ;  and  if  the  Marquis  gave  any  aid  of  any  kind  to  the  peasant-poet,  the 
world,  and  I  verily  believe  the  poet  himself,  remained  in  ignorance  of  the  amount. 

At  the  time  of  my  acquaintance  with  him  he  was  in  the  prime  of  life :  short, 
thick,  and  stubbed  of  person,  with  a  singularly  large  head,  much  out  of  proportion  to 
his  body.  His  manners  were  not  coarse,'  but  certainly  rough ;  he  had  not  been 
raised  by  the  Muse  he  worshipped  out  of  the  position  to  which  he  was  born  ;  indeed, 
he  never  left  it,  for  although  he  changed  from  that  of  a  day  labourer  for  bread  to  that 
of  the  holder  of  a  small  farm,  his  own,  he  was  during  the  whole  of  his  career  hardly 
a  grade  removed  from  the  rude  companions  with  whom  he  associated.  He  seemed, 
however,  essentially  amiable,  and  naturally  good ;  and  none  of  the  habits  of  low 
society  were  at  any  time  his.  He  was  a  good  husband  and  father ;  for  he  wedded 
early  a  young  girl  of  his  own  rank,  and  the  theme  of  his  earlier  loves  and  aspirations. 

There  was  nothing  at  all  assuming  in  his  manners ;  he  did  not  appear  expectant 
or  desirous  that  his  writings  should  raise  him  above  the  humble  calling  of  a  bread- 
winner of  the  soil.  In  short,  he  was  a  rustic,  neither  less  nor  more,  to  whom  had 
been  given  a  gift  that  seemed  to  excite  his  own  wonder. 

Poor  fellow  !  his  was  a  sad  life — 

"  Despondency  and  madness." 

He  was  not  buried  in  a  pauper's  grave,  although  he  died  a  pauper  in  a  pubhc  hospital. 
A  small  subscription  obtained  for  him  a  fitter  resting-place.*  His  last  words  were, 
"  I  want  to  go  home."  They  carried  his  body  home — to  the  graveyard  of  his  native 
village  ;  and  his  soul  was  conveyed  to  that  home  where  Lazarus  has  his  good  things, 
and  likewise  Dives  his  evil  things. 

*  Mr.  Martin  says,  (I  would  fain  hope  he  is  in  error)  that '"  when  the  poet's  spirit  had  fled,  the  superintendent 
Tit  the  Northampton  asylum  wrote  to  the  Earl  Fitzwilliam,  asking  for  a  gi-ant  of  the  smaU  sum  necessary  to  cairy 
the  wish  of  the  deceased  into  effect  (i.e.,  not  to  lie  in  a  pauper's  grave).  The  nohle  patron  replied  by  a  refusal, 
advising  the  burial  of  the  poet  as  a  pauper  at  Northampton  !  " 


MAEIA  EDGEWOETH. 

'HE  eldest  daughter  and  the  second  child  of  Richard  Lovell 
Edgeworth  was  Makia  Edgeworth.  Before  I  proceed  to  the 
few  and  brief  details  I  can  give  concerning  the  subject  of  this 
"  Memory,"  the  reader  will  not  be  displeased  to  receive  some 
particulars  relative  to  her  father,  to  whom  she,  and  consequently 
the  world,  owed  so  much  ;  for  he  directed  her  education  and 
formed  her  mind  ;  and  to  him,  therefore,  must  undoubtedly  be 
attributed  much  of  the  value  of  her  works. 
The  Edgeworth  family  "  came  into  Ireland  "  during  the  reign  of 
Queen  Elizabeth,  migrating  from  "  Edge  ware,  in  Middlesex."  In  1732  the  then 
representative  of  the  family  married  Jane  Lovell,  the  daughter  of  a  Welsh  judge,  and 
their  son,  Eichard  Lovell,  was  born  in  Pierxepoint  Street,  Bath,  in  1744.  In  early 
boyhood  he  was  taken  to  Ireland,  and  entered  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  in  1761,  being 
removed  to  Oxford  the  same  year,  and  entered  at  Corpus  Christi  as  gentleman  com- 
moner. "While  yet  a  youth  at  college" — in  1763 — he  married  "  Miss  Elers,"  the 
daughter  of  "  his  father's  friend,"  a  family  that  resided  at  Black-Bourton,  not  far 
from  Oxford.  She  was  a  lady  well  descended,  and  of  high  connections  :  that  is 
nearly  all  we  know  of  her.  It  would  appear  that  he  respected  more  than  he 
loved  her  :  having  engaged  her   affections,  he  conceived  it  a  point  of  honour  to 


MEMORIES. 


1 


become  her  husband.  Being  under  age,  they  were  "married  in  Scotland;  "  but  bis 
father,  although  disapproving  the  match,  had  them  subsequently  re-married  by 
license.*  She  was  the  mother  of  Maria,  and  many  circumstances  lead  to  the  con- 
clusion that  if  she  lacked  some  of  the  attractions  the  young  and  gay  Irishman  looked 
for,  she  was  thoi'oughly  amiable,  prudent,  and  good.  A  son,  he  tells  us,  was  born 
at  Black-Bourton,  in  1764, f  and  there  also  Maria  was  born  in  1767.  In  1768 
Mr.  Edgeworth  records  that  he  visited  Ireland,  taking  his  son  with  him,  leaving  his 
wife  and  infant  daughter  in  England. | 

At  Black-Bourton,  then,  Maria  Edgeworth  was  born,  in  1767 ;  §  she  was  the 
daughter  of  an  English  lady,  and  the  grand-daughter  of  an  English  lady  ;  moreover, 
her  father  was  of  English  birth  and  English  descent,  and  she  was  English  born. 
Nevertheless  she  was,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  Irish  :  so  she  must  be  considered, 
and  so  she  considered  herself. 

She  was  born  on  the  1st  of  January  {as  she  tells  Mrs.  Hall  in  one  of  her  letters), 
a  God-given  "  New  Year's  gift  "to  her  almost  boy-father,  and  to  the  world  for  all 
time. 

Mr.  Edgeworth  has  not  recorded  the  date  of  his  first  wife's  death,  but  on  the  17th 
of  July,  1773,  he  was  again  wedded,  at  Lichfield,  to  Miss  Honora  Sneyd.  Soon 
afterwards  they  settled  in  Ireland,  and  Edgeworthstown  became,  with  few  brief 
intervals,  thenceforward  his  permanent  home.  His  second  wife  did  not  live  long,  but 
her  husband  bears  testimony  to  her  many  virtues.  Some  time  after  her  death  he 
married  her  sister  Elizabeth,  who  thus  became  his  third  wife,  on  Christmas  Day, 
1780,  at  St.  Andrew's  Church,  Holborn.  In  1798,  being  again  a  widower,  he  again 
married — Miss  Frances  Anne  Beaufort,  the  daughter  of  Dr.  Beaufort,  "  an  excellent 
clergyman,  and  a  man  of  taste  and  of  literature."  That  admirable  woman  survived  him 
many  years.  She -was,  Mr.  Edgeworth  writes,  "  a  young  lady  of  small  fortune  and 
large-  accomplishments  ;  "  and  of  "his  marriage  with  her,"  Maria,  writing  twenty  years 
afterwards,  says,  "  Of  all  the  blessings  we  owe  to  him,  that  has  proved  the  greatest."  || 

In  1814  time  was  tellinsf  on  the  vigorous  frame  of  Mr.  Edgeworth.     In  one  of 


*  Of  his  father  Mr.  Edg-eworth  says  he  was  "  upright,  honourable,  sincere,  and  sweet-tempered ;  loved  and 
respected  by  people  of  all  ranks  with  whom  he  was  connected."  He  was  in  the  Irish  Parliament  for  twenty-five 
vears.  The  Abb(5  Edgeworth  was  a  relation,  though  not  a  near  one  ;  he  was  descended  from  a  branch  of  the 
Edgeworth  family.  Mr.  Edgeworth,  soon  after  the  restoration  of  Louis  XVI.,  addi-essed  the  minister  of  the  king, 
claiming,  "  as  the  nearest  relation  of  the  Abb(5  Edgeworth,  from  the  justice  of  France  that  his  name  should  be 
inscribed  on  some  public  monument  with  those  of  the  exalted  personages  who  relied  for  consolation  on  his  fidelity 
and  courage,  ...  to  show  that  monarrhs  may  have  friends,  and  that  princes  can  be  grateful." 

■f  Mr.  Edgeworth  records  of  his  son,  that  "  having  acquii'ed  a  vague  notion  of  the  happiness  of  a  seafaring  Ufa," 
he  became  a  sailor.  In  a  note  to  her  father's  autobiography.  Miss  Edgeworth  informs  us  that  he  some  years  after- 
wards went  to  America,  married  Elizabeth  Wright,  an  American  lady,  and  settled  in  South  Carolina,  near  George 
Town.     He  died  (August,  1796),  leaving  three  sons,  whose  descendants  are  still  resident  in  America. 

i  It  is  stated  by  Miss  Kavanagh  (I  know  not  on  what  authority)  that  Maria  was  born  at  Hare  Hatch,  near 
Beading,  and  "  that  her  birth  cost  the  mother  her  life.' '  Maria  was  bom  at  Black-Bomion,  and  her  mother  lived 
six  years  after  her  bii-th. 

?!  It  is  situated  midway  between  the  towns  of  Earringdon  (Berks)  and  Burford  (Oxon).  The  proper  name  of 
Black-Bourton  is  Bourton- Abbots.  I  was  informed  by  tJie  inciimbent  of  the  pai*ish  that  "the  old  manorial  pew 
belonging  to  the  Dean  and  Chapter  of  Christ  Church  College  formerly  belonged  to  the  Ellers  or  Elers  family ;  at  the 
back  of  it  is  the  old  family  marble  tomb  and  eiBgy ;  that  the  family  came  originally  from  Germany,  and  settled  at 
Bourton- Abbots,  in  a  fine  old  mansion-house,  a  vestige  of  which  is  not  now  to  be  found,  though  relics  of  the  old  oak 
carvings  are  scattered  among  neighbouring  cottages."  The  family  became  reduced  in  circumstances,  the  estate 
merged  into  other  hands,  and  none  of  the  name  are  now  known  at  Black-Bourton.  The  present  incumbent,  the 
Rev.  J.  Lupton,  one  of  the  Canons  of  Westminster,  is  about  to  place  a  memorial  window  in  the  church,  and  solicits 
the  aid  of  sympathising  friends. 

II  She  was  an  aged  woman  when  I  had  the  happiness  of  knowing  her.  It  was  a  beautiful  sight  to  see  the  mingled 
homage  and  affection  paid  to  her  by  every  member  of  her  family — by  her  step-children  as  well,  as  by  those.who 


■ 


his  conversations  with  his  daughter  he  spoke  of  the  later  years  of  his  life  as  by  far 
the  happiest,  and  pleasantly  said  that  "if  he  were  permitted  to  return  to  earth  in 
whatever  form  he  might  choose,  he  should  perhaps  make  the  whimsical  choice  of 
re-entering  the  world  as  an  old  man."  His  latest  letter — to  Lady  Romilly,  in  1817, 
when  he  knew  he  was  dying,  in  the  midst  of  physical  suffering,  resigned  and  cheerful, 
— contains  this  passage  :  "  I  enjoy  the  charms  of  literature,  the  sympathy  of  friend- 
ship, and  the  unbounded  gratitude  of  my  children."  His  prayer  had  been  that  as 
long  as  he  lived  he  might  retain  his  intellectual  faculties,  and  that  blessing  was 
mercifully  granted  to  him.  He  thanked  God  that  his  mind  did  not  die  before  his 
body.*  On  the  13th  of  June,  1817,  he  died,  and  his  remains  were  deposited  in  the 
family  vault  in  the  churchyard  of  Edgeworthstown,  to  which,  in  accordance  with  his 
written  directions,  he  was  borne   on  the  shoulders  of  his  own  labourers,  his  coffin 


/^XV^'Z-^ 


being  "  without  velvet,  plate,  or   gilding."     And  the  stone  that  covers  his  remains 
contains  no  inscription  beyond  his  name  and  the  dates  of  his  birth  and  death. 

That  his  was  "  a  useful  and  a  well-spent  life  "  there  is  abundant  evidence.  As  a 
member  of  Parliament,  as  a  county  magistrate,  as  a  landed  proprietor  (acknowledging 
the  duties  as  well  as  the  rights  of  property),  he  was  entirely  worthy;  in  all  that 
appertained  to  his  family  and  to  society  he  was  considerate,  generous,  just ;  while  of 
the  influence  he  exercised  over  his  own  family  we  have  the  proofs  not  only  in  his 
own  writings,  but  in  those  of  his  daughter.     It  was  justly  said  of  him,— 

"  With  words  succinct,  yet  full,  without  a  fault, 
He  said  no  more  than  just  the  thing  he  ought." 


were  more  pecuHarly  her  own.    Maria's  hopes  and  anticipations,  in  ms.  were  m^^^^  Tu^fher  falL^^ILd 

century  afterwards,  and  during  all  the  mtervenin|  years,     ^-l^e  ^^-^^  to™  at  or  near  J^avan^  m  ia,y^  Beaufort,  was 


To  estimate  rightly  both  father  and  daughter,  some  notes  on  the  state  of  Ireland 
nearly  a  century  ago  are  needful.  When,  in  1782,  Maria  may  be  said  to  have  first 
visited  Ireland,  and  her  father  became  "a  resident  Irish  Landlord,"  the  country  was 
in  a  condition  very  different  indeed  from  that  which  it  now  presents,  and  presented 
at  the  period  of  her  removal  from  earth. 

"  If  ever  any  country  was  governed  by  an  oligarchy,  Ireland  was  in  that  position 
before  the  Union  :  "  thus  Mr.  Edgeworth  wrote  in  1817.  Society  was  in  a  deeply- 
degraded  state  ;  recklessness  and  extravagance  were  almost  universal.  *'  As  landlord 
and  magistrate,  the  proprietor  of  an  estate  had  to  listen  to  perpetual  complaints, 
petty  wranglings  and  equivocations,  in  which  no  human  sagacity  could  discover 
truth  or  award  justice."  A  large  proportion  of  the  gentry  dwelt  in  "  superb 
mansions,"  so  far  as  regarded  size,  but  "  lived  in  debt,  danger,  and  subterfuge, 
nominally  possessors  of  a  palace,  but  really  in  dread  of  a  jail."  The  dominant  party 
regarded  themselves  as  the  masters  of  slaves  ;  "  drivers  "  were  the  satellites  of  every 
landlord  ;  and  middlemen  farmed  nearly  all  the  land,  taking  it  at  a  reasonable  rent 
(paying  usually  in  advance),  and  reletting  it  immediately  to  poor  tenants  at  the 
highest  price  possible  to  be  pressed  out  of  their  necessities.  It  was  generally  a 
hopeless  task  that  which  strove  to  make  the  tenant  even  moderately  comfortable. 
Justice  was  a  thing  never  looked  for;  it  was  always  the  landlord  against  the  tenant, 
and  the  tenant  against  the  landlord.* 

It  is  certain  that  Mr.  Edgeworth  was  far  in  advance  of  his  time.  The  poorer 
classes  did  not  understand  him  ;  they  were  not  prepared  for  the  advent  of  a  magis- 
trate who  required  evidence  only  with  a  view  to  ascertain  truth,  nor  for  a  gentleman 
who  preferred  rather  to  pay  than  to  give,  and  whose  established  rule  was  to  do  right 
for  right's  sake  ;  while  neighbouring  gentry  were  utterly  incapable  of  comprehending 
a  man  who  was  indiiOferent  to  field  sports  and  never  drank  to  excess ;  who  was 
faithful  to  his  home,  and  happiest  when  his  children  were  his  playmates  ;  who  was 
a  politician,  yet  of  no  party  ;  whose  religion  was  based  on  universal  charity ;  and 
who  was  the  protector  of  the  poor  and  the  advocate  of  the  oppressed.  The  records 
of  Ireland  towards  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  and  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth 
century  are  now  happily  gone-by  histories  ;  but  something  should  be  known  of  them 
to  comprehend  the  character  of  Richard  Lovell  Edgeworth.  In  the  end  he 
triumphed  over  pi-ejudice,  disarmed  hostihty,  and  set  an  example  the  sal;itary 
influence  of  which  can  scarcely  be  exaggerated  by  any  historian  of  the  perilous 
time  in  which  he  lived,  f 

His  life  was  especially  valuable  as  forming  the  mind  of  his  daughter  Maria — the 
minds  of  all  his  children,  indeed.     She  writes — "Few,  I  believe,  have  ever  enjoyed 


*  In  1783  (thus  writes  Maria  Edgeworth  in  her  memoirs  of  her  father)  "  a  statute  of  King  William  III.,  entitled 
'  An  Act  to  prevent  the  Growth  of  Popery,'  ordained  no  less  than  a  forfeiture  of  inheritance  against  those  CathoUcs 
who  had  been  educated  abroad  ;  at  the  pleasure  of  any  informer  it  confiscated  their  estates  to  the  next  Protestant 
heir.  That  statute  farther  deprived  Papists  of  the  power  of  obtaining  any  legal  property  by  purchase  ;  and  simply 
for  officiating  in  the  service  of  his  religion,  any  Catholic  priest  was  liable  to  be  imprisoned  for  life.  Some  of  these 
penalties  had  fallen  into  disuse,  but,  as  Mr.  Dunning  stated  in  the  English  House  of  Commons,  '  many  respectable 
Catholics  still  lived  in  fear  of  them,  and  some  actually  paid  contributions  to  persons  who,  on  the  strength  of  this 
Act,  threatened  them  with  prosecutions.' ' ' 

+  The  Sir  Condys  and  Sir  Murtaghs  .of  "  Castle  Rackrent "  had  their  origfinals  in  most  Irish  families  at  the" 
time  Maria  Edgeworth  wrote  that  tale. 


MARIA   EDGEIVORTH. 


sucli  happiness  or  sucli  advantages  as  I  have  had  in  the  instruction,  society,  and 
unbounded  confidence  and  affection  of  such  a  father  and  such  a  friend." 

At  that  period  it  absolutely  required  some  such  intelligence  to  usher  such  an 
intellect  into  the  world  of  letters.  Authorship  was  considered  out  of  the  province  of 
woman ;  and  although  Mr.  Edgeworth  records  as  an  astonishing  fact  (on  the 
authority  of  Burke)  that  there  were  then  actually  80,000  (!)  readers  in  Great  Britain 
very  few  of  them  were  of  the  gentler  sex.  He  tells  us  that  his  own  grandmother 
"  was  singularly  averse  to  all  learning  in  a  lady  beyond  reading  the  Bible  and  being 
able  to  cast  up  a  week's  household  account,"  and  did  her  best  to  prevent  her 
daughter  from  "  wasting  her  time  upon  books  ;  "  in  vain,  however,  for  she  became  a 
thoroughly-educated  woman,  and  to  "her  instructions  and  authority"  her  son 
acknowledges  himself  indebted  for  the  happiness  of  his  life. 

The  critic  Jeffrey  writes  : — "  A  greater  mass  of  trash  and  rubbish  never  disgraced 
the  press  of  any  country  than  the  ordinary  novels  that  filled  and  supported  our  circu- 
lating libraries  down  nearly  to  the  time  of  Miss  Edgeworth's  first  appearance." 
There  were  some  exceptions,  no  doubt,  and  some  works  that  have  kept  their  places 
in  the  hearts  of  millions  :  but  "  the  staple  of  the  novel  market  was,  beyond  imagi- 
nation, despicable,  and  had  consequently  sunk  and  degraded  the  whole  department  of 
literature  of  which  it  had  usurped  the  name."  The  "rabble  rout"  of  the  Minerva 
Press  was  scattered  as  by  the  wand  of  an  enchanter  when  this  admirable  woman 
appeared;  and  to  her  we  are  perhaps  indebted  for  the  "  Waverley  Novels,"  for  it  is 
avowed  by  Scott  that  he  was  prompted  by  the  example  of  Miss  Edgeworth  to  a 
desire  to  do  for  Scotland  what  she  had  done  for  Ireland.* 

The  growth  of  Maria's  mind  she  traces  wholly  to  her  father,  and  very  often  she 
humbly  and  gratefully  acknowledges  how  much  her  writings  were  improved  by  his 
critical  taste  and  matured  judgment.  "  In  consequence  of  his  earnest  exhortations," 
she  writes,  "I  began  in  1791  or  1792,  to  note  down  anecdotes  of  the  children  he 
was  then  educating  ;  "  writing  also,  for  her  own  amusement  and  instruction,  some  of 
his  conversation-lessons.  In  their  system  of  educating  these  children  "  all  the 
general  ideas  originated  with  him  ;  the  illustrating  and  manufacturing  them,  if  I 
may  use  the  expression,  was  mine."  The  "  Practical  Education  "  was  thus  a  joint 
work  of  father  and  daughter;  it  was  published  in  1798,  "  and  so  commenced  that 
Kterary  partnership  which,  for  so  many  years,  was  the  pride  and  joy  of  my  life." 
The  next  book  they  published  "in  partnership  "  was  the  "  Essay  on  Irish  Bulls." 
The  illustrative  anecdotes  there  retailed  owed  little  to  invention,  and  nearly  all  of 
them  were  facts  ;  sometimes  he  told  them,  with  racy  humour  and  point,  while  she 
wrote  them  down.  He  was  always  at  hand  to  advise,  not  often  to  write.  In 
"  Patronage  "  he  did  not  pen  a  single  passage,  but  the  "  plan  "  was  his  suggestion  ; 
it  originated  in  a  story  invented  by  him,  and  the  leading  characters  were  sketched  as 


*  "  Without  being  so  presumptuous  as  to  hope  to  emulate  the  rich  humour,  pathetic  tenderness,  and  admu-able 
tact  which  pervades  the  works  of  my  accomplished  friend,  I  felt  that  something  might  be  attempted  tor  my  own 
country  of  the  same  kind  with  that  which  Miss  Edgeworth  so  fortunately  achieved  for  Ireland- sometmng  wmcn 
might  "introduce  her  natives  to  those  of  the  sister  kingdom  in  a  more  favourable  light  than  they  haa  oeen  piacea 
hitherto,  and  tend  to  procure  sympathy  for  their  virtues  and  indulgence  for  their  foibles.       bcoTT. 


114 


MEMORIES. 


he  imagined  them.  "  All  his  literary  ambition  was  for  me."  His  skill  was  exercised 
in  "  cutting."  "  '  It  is  mine  to  cut  and  correct,'  he  once  said,  '  yours  to  write  on  ; ' 
and  such,  happily  for  me,  was  his  power  over  my  mind,  that  no  one  thing  I  ever 
began  to  write  was  ever  left  unfinished."  In  the  few  letters  he  addressed  to  her — 
lor  they  were  rarely  apart  even  for  a  day — he  signs  himself  "  Your  critic,  partner, 
father,  friend." 

To  write  for  children  was  then  considered  below  the  dignity  of  authorship.  Dr. 
Watts  and  Mrs.  Barbauld  had,  indeed,  thus  "  condescended  ;  •"  but,  with  these 
exceptions,  there  were  few  or  none  able  or  willing  to  make  their  way  into  the  minds 
and  hearts  of  "  the  little  ones." 


% 


EDGEWOIiTHSTOWN. 


I 


There  is  abundant  evidence  that  much  of  the  true  greatness  of  Maria  Edgeworth's 
mind — and  the  inestimable  value  of  her  writings — resulted  from  the  duty  which 
nature  imposed  upon  her  when  she  was  placed  at  the  head  of  a  family  consisting  of 
children  of  varied  ages  from  infancy  to  youthhood.  In  1814  she  writes,  "His  eldest 
was  above  five-and-forty,  the  youngest  being  only  one  year  old."  It  therefore  became 
the  duty  of  the  eldest  to  train  the  younger  branches — children  who  were  learning  to 
speak  when  she  was  sedate  and  aged.  Hence  that  educated  power  by  which  she 
brought  the  elevated  sensibilities  and  sound  morahties  of  life  to  a  level  with  the 
comprehension  of  childhood;  rendering  knowledge,  and  virtue,  and  consideration, 
and  order,  the  companions — almost  the  playthings  as  well  as  the  teachers— of  the 
nurseiy. 

Mr.  Edgeworth  had  sons  and  daughters  by  each  of  his  four  wives :  he  was  then- 


MARIA   EDGEWORTH.  ,15 


parent,  their  preceptor,  their  friend,  their  companion,  their  playmate  ;  they  hvedwith 
him  on  "  terms  of  equality  that  diminished  nothing  from  respect,"  giving  to  him  grati- 
tude and  affection.  "  Those  who  knew  him  longest  loved  him  best."  '<  I  have  heard 
him  say,"  writes  Maria,  "  that  he  never  in  his  whole  life  lost  a  friend  but  by  death." 
And  that  which  he  wrote  to  Darwin,  in  1796,  of  Edgeworthstown,— "  I  do  not  think 
one  tear  per  month  is  shed  in  this  house,  nor  the  voice  of  reproof  heard,  nor  the  hand 
of  restraint  felt,"— continued  to  be  as  true  in  1844,  when  we  visited  Edgeworthstown, 
as  it  had  been  half  a  century  earlier ;  so  it  was,  through  all  changes,  anxieties,  and 
responsibilities,  during  fifty  years. 

In  1842,  not  long  after  we  had  enjoyed  the  society  of  Miss  Edgeworth  at  Edge- 
worthstown, and  had  described  her  and  her  happy  home  in  our  work — "  Ireland,  its 
Scenery  and  Character  " — we  received  a  letter  from  that  honoured  lady,  in  which,  to 
our  great  gratification,  she  wrote — "  You'  are,  I  thmk,  the  only  persons  who  have 
visited  me,  and  have  written  concerning  me,  who  have  not  printed  a  line  I  desire  to 
erase."  *  The  feeling  that  prompted  us  then  will,  in  a  degree,  guide  us  now.  It  was 
her  wish  that  no  Life  of  her  should  be  published  ;  as  she  once  said  to  us — "  My  only 
remains  shall  be  in  the  church  at  Edgeworthstown ; "  and,  as  the  result  of  a  subse- 
quent correspondence  with  Mrs.  Edgeworth,  in  which  we  pressed  to  know  if  the 
injunction  extended  to  her  voluminous,  valuable,  and  deeply-interesting  "  correspond- 
ence," we  have  reason  to  believe  the  family  desire  (in  accordance  with  a  suggestion 
they  deem  as  sacred  as  a  command)  rather  the  suppression  than  the  publication  of 
any  documents  that  may  illustrate  either  her  private  or  her  literary  career.  We  may 
regret  this,  and  do  ;  for  if  ever  there  was  a  life,  from  the  commencement  to  the  close, 
that  would  bear  the  strictest  scrutiny,  it  was  hers.  It  was  not  only  blameless,  but 
faultless ;  ruled  by  the  sternest  sense  of  rectitude ;  emphatically  xisejid  almost  from 
the  cradle  to  the  grave. 

Edgeworthstown  was,  and  is,  a  large  country  mansion,  to  which  additions  have 
been  from  time  to  time  made,  but  made  judiciously.  An  avenue  of  venerable  trees 
leads  to  it  from  the  public  road.  It  is  distant  about  seven  miles  from  the  town  of 
Longford.  The  only  room  I  need  specially  refer  to  is  the  library ;  it  belonged  more 
pecuharly  to  Maria,  although  the  general  sitting-room  of  the  family.  It  was  the  room 
in  which  she  did  nearly  all  her  work — not  only  that  which  was  to  gratify  and  instruct 
the  world,  but  that  which,  in  a  measure,  regulated  the  household — the  domestic 
duties  that  were  subjects  of  her  continual  thought ;  for  the  desk  at  which  she  usually 
sat  was  never  without  memoranda  of  matters  from  which  she  might  have  pleaded  a 
right  to  be  held  exempt.  Mrs.  Hall  described  it  in  our  work,  "  Ireland,  its  Scenery 
and  Character,"  and  I  may  borrow  in  substance  that  description  here.  It  is  by  no 
means  a  stately,  solitary  room,  but  large,  spacious,  and  lofty,  well  stored  with  books, 
and  "  furnished  "  with  suggestive  engravings.  Seen  through  the  window  is  the 
lawn,  embellished  by  groups  of  trees.     If  you  look  at  the  oblong  table  in  the  centre, 

*  About  the  same  period  we  received  from  Mrs.  Wilson,  Miss  Edgeworth' s  sister,  a  letter  in  which  occurs  this 
passage:— "I,  as  one  of  the  family,  my  dear  Mrs.  Hall,  must  give  you  my  grateful  thanks  for  the  delicacy  with 
which  you  have  avoided  saying  anything  that  could  hurt  our  feelings,  or  violate  the  privacy  of  the  domestic  life  in 
which  my  sister  delights." 


ii6 


MEMORIES. 


S 


you  will  see  the  rallying-point  of  the  family,  who  are  usually  around  it,  reading, 
writing,  or  working  ;  while  Miss  Edgeworth,  only  anxious  that  the  inmates  of  the 
house  shall  each  do  exactly  as  he  or  she  pleases — sits  in  her  owm  peculiar  corner  on 
the  sofa  :  a  pen,  given  her  by  Sir  Walter  Scott  while  a  guest  at  Edgeworthstown  in 
1825,  is  phxced  before  her  on  a  httle,  quaint,  unassuming  table,  constructed,  and 
added  to,  for  convenience.  She  had  a  singular  power  of  abstraction,  apparently' 
hearing  all  that  was  said,  and  occasionally  taking  part  in  the  conversation,  while 
pursuing  her  own  occupation,  and  seemingly  attending  only  to  it.  In  that  corner, 
and  on  that  table,  she  had  written  nearly  all  the  works  which  have  delighted  and 
enlightened  the  world.*  Now  and  then  she  would  rise  and  leave  the  room,  perhaps 
to  procure  a  toy  for  one  of  the  children,  to  mount  the  ladder  and  bring  down  a  book 


MISS   EDGEWOKTH  S   UBKARY. 


that  could  explain  or  illustrate  some  topic  on  which  some  one  was  conversing  :  imme- 
diately she  would  resume  her  pen,  and  continue  to  write  as  if  the  thought  had  been 
unbroken  for  an  instant.  I  expressed  to  Mrs.  Edgeworth  surprise  at  this  faculty,  so 
opposed  to  my  own  habit.  "  Maria,"  she  said,  "  was  always  the  same  ;  her  mind 
was  so  rightly  balanced,  everything  so  honestly  weighed,  that  she  suffered  no  incon- 
venience from  what  would  disturb  and  distract  an  ordinary  writer." 

*  She  wrote  always  in  the  library,  heedless  of  any  noise,  even  of  the  romps  of  children,  such  as  might  have 
annoyed  a  less  even  temperament ;  and  on  a  small  desk  her  father  had  with  his  own  hands  m.ade  for  her.  On  that 
desk,  not  long  hefore  his  death,  he  placed  the  following  inscription  :— "  On  this  humble  desk  were  written  aU.  the 
numerous  works  of  my  daughter,  Maria  Edgeworth,  in  the  common  sitting-room  of  my  family.  In  these  works, 
which  were  chiefly  written  to  please  me,  she  has  never  attacked  the  personal  character  of  any  human  being,  or 
interfered  with  the  opinions  of  any  sect  or  party,  religious  or  political :  while  endeavoiu-ing  to  inform  and  instruct 
others,  she  improved  and  amused  her  own  mind  and  gratified  her  heart,  which  I  do  believe  is  better  than  her  head.— 
E.  L.  E." 


i 


MARIA   EDGEWORTH. 


She  was  an  early  riser,  and  had  much  work  done  before  breakfast.  Every  moi'n- 
ing  during  our  stay  at  Edgeworthstown  she  had  gathered  a  bouquet  of  roses,  which 
she  placed  beside  my  plate  at  the  table,  while  she  was  always  careful  to  refresh  the 
vase  that  stood  in  our  chamber  ;  and  she  invariably  examined  my  feet  after  a  walk, 
to  see  that  damp  had  not  induced  danger;  "popping"  in  and  out  of  our  room  with 
some  kind  inquiry,  some  thoughtful  suggestion,  or  to  show  some  object  that  she  knew 
would  give  pleasure.  It  is  to  such  small  courtesies  as  these  that  we  owe  much  of  the 
happiness  of  life.  Maria  Edgeworth  seemed  never  weary  of  thought  that  could  make 
those  about  her  happy.  The  impression  thus  produced  upon  us  is  as  vivid  to-day  as 
it  was  thirty  years  ago. 

A  wet  day  was  a  "  godsend"  to  us.  She  would  enter  our  sitting-room  and  con- 
verse freely  of  persons  whose  names  are  histories  ;  and  once  she  brought  us  a  large 
box  full  of  letters — her  correspondence  with  many  great  men  and  women,  extending 
over  more  than  fifty  years — authors,  artists,  men  of  science,  social  reformers,  states- 
men of  all  the  countries  of  Europe,  and  especially  America — a  country  of  which  she 
spoke  and  wrote  in  terms  of  the  highest  respect  and  affection. 

Although  we  had  known  Miss  Edgeworth  in  London — and,  indeed,  had  often  the 
honour  of  receiving  her  as  a  guest  at  our  house — it  will  be  readily  understood  how 
much  more  to  advantage  she  was  seen  in  her  own  home.  She  was  the  very  gentlest 
of  lions,  the  most  unexacting — apparently  the  least  conscious  of  her  right  to  promi- 
nence. In  London  she  did  not  reject,  yet  she  seemed  averse  to,  the  homage  accorded 
her  ;  at  home  she  was  emphatically  at  home. 

The  last  time  we  saw  her  was  at  the  house  of  her  sister,  Mrs.  Wilson,  in  North 
Audley  Street.  She  was,  of  course,  a  centre  of  attraction ;  the  heated  room  and 
many  "presentations  "  seemed  to  weary  her.  We,  of  course,  were  seldom  near  her 
in  the  crowd,  and  as  we  were  bidding  her  good-bye  she  made  us  amends  by  whisper- 
ing, "  We  will  make  up  for  this  at  Edgeworthstown."  Alas  !  that  was  not  to  be  ; 
not  long  afterwards  she  returned  to  Edgeworthstown,  and  was  suddenly  called  from 
earth. 

She  had  complained  somewhat,  felt  languid  and  oppressed,  and  consented  that 
her  friend  and  physician,  Sir  Henry  Marsh,  should  be  sent  for.  Half  an  hour  after 
the  letter  was  written  Mrs.  Edgeworth  entered  her  bed-room.  Passing  her  hand 
under  the  patient's  head,  she  gently  raised  it,  and  as  it  reclined  on  her  breast  the 
soul  passed  away.  She  died,  without  either  physical  or  mental  suffering,  on  the 
22nd  May,  1849,  in  the  eighty-third  year  of  her  useful  and  happy  life,  "  full  of  years 
and  honours  "  indeed. "•=  Thus  far  her  death  was  almost  sudden  ;  in  her  case  a  boon 
of  mercy  from  the  God  she  had  so  long  served.  She  had  often  expressed  a  hope 
that  she  might  die  "  at  home,"  at  Edgeworthstown,  and  that  her  illness  might  not  be 
long,  tedious,  and  troublesome. 


*  In  one  of  her  letters  to  Mrs.  HaU  (^vho  wrote  to  her  on  her  birthday  every  year  during  several  years)  she  says 
«  Tour  cordial,  warm-hearted  note  was  the  very  pleasantest  I  received  on  my  birthday,  ,ef,f  P^^^f^^^'j^j^/i'o^. 
family."  That  was  the  last  birthday  she  passed  on  earth.  She  adds,  "  You  must  ^"t  ^ela^  l°°^^;^^„XtvJeI^^^ 
way  to  Edgeworthstown  if  you  mean  to  see  me  again.  Remember  you  have  just  congi-atulated  me  on  my  eighty  secona 
birthday." 


ii8  MEMORIES. 


It  is  to  be  regretted  that  there  exists  no  portrait  of  this  admirable  woman.  A 
hint  I  gave  that  to  obtain  one  would  be  a  vast  boon  was  not  well  received,  and  there 
was  some  hesitation  in  permitting  Mr.  Fairholt,  who  was  our  companion  during  our 
visit  to  Edgeworthstown,  to  introduce  into  his  drawing  of  the  library  her  portrait  as 
she  sat  at  her  desk  examining  papers  :  that  sketch  I  have  engraved.  Mr.  Sneyd 
Edgeworth  gave  me,  however,  a  photograph  of  a  family  picture,  of  which  also  I  give 
an  engraving. 

Her  contemporaries  have  not  said  much  concerning  her  ;  indeed,  of  late  years  she 
was  but  little  seen  out  of  Edgeworthstown,  her  visits  to  London  being  rare  and  brief. 
It  is  known  that  Sir  Walter  Scott  much  loved  and  honoured  her ;  yet  there  is  little 
concerning  her  in  his  journal,  although  he  spent  some  days  with  her  at  Edgeworths- 
town.* "  She  writes,"  he  says,  "  all  the  while  she  laughs,  talks,  eats,  and  drinks;" 
and,  in  another  place,  "  I  am  particularly  pleased  with  the  naivete  and  good- 
humoured  ardour  of  mind  which  she  unites  with  such  formidable  powers  of  acute 
observation."  She  was  well  appreciated  by  Sydney  Smith,  who  thus  wrote  of  her: 
"  She  does  not  say  witty  things,  but  there  is  such  a  perfume  of  wit  runs  through  all 
her  conversation  as  makes  it  very  bi'illiant."  This  passage,  however,  I  find  in 
Lockhart's  Life  of  Scott : — 

"It  maybe  well  imagined  with  what  lively  interest  Sir  Walter  surveyed  the  scenery  with 
which  so  many  of  the  proudest  recollections  of  Ireland  must  ever  be  associated,  and  how  curio\isly 
he  studied  the  rural  manners  it  presented  to  him,  in  the  hope  (not  disappointed)  of  being-  able  to 
trace  some  of  his  friend's  bright  creations  to  their  jfirst  hints  and  germs.  On  the  delight  wiih 
which  he  contemplated  her  position  in  the  midst  of  her  own  large  and  happy  domestic  circle,  I 
need  say  slill  less.  The  reader  is  aware  by  this  time  how  deeply  he  condemned  and  pitied  the 
conduct  and  fate  of  those  who,  gifted  with  pre-eminent  talents  for  the  instruction  and  entertnin- 
irient  of  their  species  at  large,  fancy  themselves  entitled  to  no  ,lect  those  every-day  duties  and 
charities  of  life,  from  the  mere  shadowing  of  which  in  imaginary  pictures  the  genius  of  poetry 
and  romance  has  always  reaped  its  highest  and  purest,  perhaps  its  only  true  immortal  honours. 
In  Maria  he  hailed  a  sister  spirit ;  one  who,  at  the  summit  of  literary  fame,  took  the  same  modest, 
just,  and,  let  me  add,  Christian  view  of  the  relative  importance  of  the  feelings,  the  obligations, 
and  the  hopes  in  which  we  are  all  equally  the  partakers,  and  those  talents  and  accomplishments 
which  may  seem  to  vain  and  short-sighted  eyes  sufficient  to  constitute  their  possessors  into  hu 
order  and  species  apart  from  the  rest  of  their  kind.  Such  fantastic  conceits  found  no  shelter  with 
either  of  these  powerful  minds." 

This  is  Mrs.  Hall's  portrait  of  Maria  Edgeworth  in  1842 : — In  person  she  was 
very  small  — she  was  "  lost  in  a  crowd;  "  her  face  was  pale  and  thin,  her  features 
irregular — they  may  have  been  considered  plain,  even  in  youth ;  but  her  expression 
was  so  benevolent,  her  manners  were  so  perfectly  well  bred — partaking  of  English 
dignity  and  Irish  frankness — that  one  never  thought  of  her  with  reference  either  to 
beauty  or  plainness ;  she  ever  occupied,  without  claiming,  attention,  charming  con- 
tinually by  her  singularly  pleasant  voice,  while  the  earnestness  and  truth  that  beamed 
from  her  bright  blue — very  blue — eyes  increased  the  value  of  every  word  she  uttered  ; 

*  During  Miss  Edgeworth's  visit  to  Abbotsford,  in  1823,  previous  to  the  return  visit  to  Edgeworthstown,  an 
incident  occurred  that  has  been  stated  of  others,  I  believe.  Miss  Edgeworth  herself  told  us  that  one  moonlight 
night  she  proposed  to  Scott  to  visit  Melrose,  quoting  his  famous  lines  — 

"  If  you  would  see  Melrose  aright. 
Go  visit  it  by  the  pale  moonlight." 

Scott  at  once  assented,  adding,  "  By  aU  means  let  us  go,  for  I  myself  have  never  seen  Melrose  by  moonlight." 


MARIA   EDGEWORTH.  119 


she  knew  how  to  listen  as  well  as  to  talk,  and  gathered  information  in  a  manner 
highly  complimentary  to  those  from  whom  she  sought  it;  her  attention  seemed  far 
more  the  effect  of  respect  than  of  curiosity  ;  her  sentences  were  frequently  epigram- 
matic ;  she  more  than  once  suggested  to  me  the  story  of  the  good  fairy  from  whose 
lips  dropped  diamonds  and  pearls  whenever  they  were  opened  ;  she  was  ever  neat  and 
particular  in  her  dress,  a  duty  to  society  which  literary  women  sometimes  culpably 
neglect ;  her  feet  and  hands  were  so  delicate  and  small  as  to  be  almost  childlike  ;  * 
in  a  word,  Maria  Edgeworth  was  one  of  those  women  who  do  not  seem  to  requu'e 
beauty. 

Miss  Edgeworth  has  been  called  "cold;"  but  those  who  have  so  deemed  her 
have  never  seen,  as  I  have  (Mrs.  Hall  writes),  the  tears  gather  in  her  eyes  at  a  tale 
of  suffering  or  sorrow,  nor  heard  the  genuine  hearty  laugh  that  followed  the  relation 
of  a  pleasant  story.  Never,  so  long  as  I  live,  can  I  forget  the  evenings  spent  in  her 
library  in  the  midst  of  a  family  highly  educated  and  self-thinking,  in  conversation 
unrestrained,  yet  pregnant  with  instructive  thought. 

Of  the  tvcenty-tKO  children  born  to  Eichard  Lovell  Edgeworth  there  are  but  two 
now  left ;  there  is,  however,  happily,  another  generation  to  reap  the  harvest  of  the 
seed  that  was  planted  at  Edgeworthstown  nearly  a  century  ago. 

The  long  career  of  Maria  Edgeworth  illustrated  her  own  and  her  father's  system 
of  education — practical  education.  She  was,  by  her  own  example,  that  which  she 
laboured  to  make  others — active,  energetic,  cheerful,  ever  at  hand,  everywhere  when 
needed. 

It  was — and  possibly  still  is — made  a  charge  against  the  Edgeworths,  that  they 
put  aside  "religion"  from  their  plans  of  education.  The  subject  is  certainly  not 
prominent  in  their  writings,  but  Mr,  Edgeworth  emphatically  affirms  his  conviction 
that  "  religious  obligation  is  indispensably  necessary  in  the  education  of  all  descrip- 
tions of  people  in  every  part  of  the  world,"  and  considered  "religion,  in  the  large 
sense  of  the  word,  to  be  the  only  certain  bond  of  society."  His  daughter  also 
strongly  protests  against  the  idea  that  he  designed  to  lay  down  a  system  of  education 
founded  upon  morality  exclusive  of  religion,  j 

It  may  be  worth  noting  that  during  our  residence  at  Edgeworthstown  the  family 
assembled  at  prayers  every  morning,  that  they  were  regular  attendants  at  the  parish 
church,  and  that  other  evidence  was  supplied  of  the  strength  of  their  religious  faith. 


I  may  be  permitted  to  make  some  extracts  from  the  few  of  her  letters  we  have 

preserved.     The  first  is  a  passage  from  one  dated  January  2,  1848 ;  it  concerns  her 

little  book  for  the  young,  "  Orlandino  :  " — 

"  Chambers,  as  you  alwnys  told  me,  acts  very  liberally.  As  this  was  to  earn  a  little  money  for 
our  parish  poor  in  the  last  year's  distress,  he  most  considerately  gave  prompt  payment.     Even 

*  She  once  commissioned  me  to  procure  for  her  a  pair  of  shoes  from  Melnotte's,  in  M  ;  and  when  I  handed 
the  mnrlpl  tn  thp  RlioPTTinTi-pr  T  had  diificultv  in  persuading  him  it  was  not  the  shoe  o±  a  little  gul. 

?^Eobeit  Hall  XrSitly  prai^^^  witings,  laments  that  they  are  without  even  allusion  to  Christianity : 
-  '■  She  does  not  atteckreSS  or  i^i^fgli  against  it,  but  makes  it  appear  unnecessary,  by  exhibUmg  perfect  virtue 
without  it." 


^2o  MEMORIES. 


1 


before  publication,  when  the  proof-sheets  were  under  correction,  came  tbe  ready  order  on  the 
Bank  of  Ireland.  Blessings  on  him  \  and  I  hope  he  will  not  be  the  worse  for  me :  I  am  surely 
tbe  better  for  him,  and  so  are  numbers  now  working  and  eating  ;  for  Mrs.  E.'s  principle  and  mine 
is  to  excite  the  people  to  work  for  good  wages,  and  not  by  gratis  feeding  to  make  beggars  of  theui, 
and  ungrateful  beggars,  as  the  case  might  be." 

*«*****■* 

"  I  do  not  deserve  the  very  kind,  warm-hearted  letter  I  have  just  received  from  you,  dear 
Mrs.  Hall ;  but  I  prize  and  like  it  all  the  better.  So  little  standing  upon  ceremony,  and  so 
cordially  off-hand  and  from  the  heart.  Thank  you  for  it  with  all  my  heart,  and  be  assured  it 
gave  me  heartfelt  pleasure,  and  this  I  know  will  please  you." 

I  copy  a  passage  from  one  of  the  criticisms  on  her  contemporaries,  in  which  she 
sometimes  indulged  in  hev  letters  to  Mi'S.  Hall,  all  marked  by  sound  observation  and 
generous  sympathj' : — 

"  A  book  has  much  interested  me ;  it  is  unlike  any  other  bo^^k  I  ever  read  in  my  life,  and 
yet  true  to  nature  in  new  circumstances.  To  be  sure,  I  cannot  judge  of  the  circumstances  or  the 
narrative,  never  having  been  in  the  country  ;  but  the  descriptions,  full  of  life,  and  marked  by  that 
seal  of  genius  which  we  recognise  the  instant  we  see  it,  obtains  perfect  credence  from  the  reader, 
and  hurries  ua  on  through  the  most  romantic  adventures,  still  domestic,  and  confined  to  a  few 
persons  not  in  number  beyond  the  power  of  symjjathy.  One  or  two  the  most  powerfully  drawn 
may,  perhaps,  touch  the  bounds  of  impossibility.  The  book  I  mean  has  a  title  which  does  not  do 
it  justice,  and  which  would  rather  lead  one  to  expect  a  gossiping  chronicle.  It  is  called  'The 
Neighbours.'  Its  author,  I  understand,  is  a  JMiss  Bremer,  of  Stockholm,  translated  by  Mary 
Howitt,  and  the  best  and  most  just  praise  I  can  give  to  her  translation  is,  that  one  never,  from 
beginning  to  end,  recollects  her  existence  ;  never  does  it  occur  to  our  mind  that  it  is  a  translation. 
Pray  tell  me  if  you  know  anything  of  this  author,  and  how  I  should  address  her  at  Stockholm." 

'•  How  very  much  one  is  obliged  to  the  genius  which  can  snatch  one  from  oneself  away  in 
times  of  great  depression  of  spirits — at  those  times  when  we  are  not  wise  enough  to  be  able  to 
give  a  reason  for  particularhj  liking  ;  but  the  invcluntary  feeling  is  perhaps  the  most  gratifying  to 
a  writer  of  benevolent  heart,  as  well  as  superior  genius." 

She  was  with  Sir  Walter  Scott  when  he  visited  Killarney.  There  had  been  a 
rumour  that  the  great  author  had  been  treated  with  slight  during  his  \"isit  to  the  Iiish 
Lakes,  and  that  he  had  spoken  of  them  with  contumely :  I  thought  it  right  to  set 
that  question  at  rest.     The  following  letter  is  now  before  me.     She  writes : — 

"  Edgewoethstowx,  June  18,  1843. 
"  My  sister,  Harriet  Butler,  and  I  were  in  the  boat  with  Sir  AValter  Scott,  the  day,  and  the 
only  day,  when  he  was  on  the  Killarney  Lakes.  We  heard  him  declare  that  he  thought  the 
Upper  Lake  the  most  beautiful  he  h:td  ever  seen  excepting  Loch  Lomond :  more  could  not  by 
mortal  tonyue  be  expressed  by  a  Scotsnaan.  I  did  not  hear  him  find  fault,  or  say  that  he  was 
disappointed,  during  the  whole  row.  He  appeared  pleased  and  pleasing  ;  and  why  any  people 
should  have  imagined  he  was  not,  I  cannot  imagine.  '  Rude  '  I  am  sure  he  was  not ;  he  coiild 
not  be.  We  were  sorry  that  we  could  not  stay  another  day  ;  but  all  experienced  travellers  know 
full  well  that  they  must  give  up  their  wishes  to  preWous  arrangements  and  engagements,  and  that 
they  must  cut  their  plans  and  pleasures  according  to  their  time  and  promises.  As  to  the  affair  of 
the  stag-hunt,  I  can  only  say  that  /  received  no  invitation  to  see  one  ;  that  u-e  did  not  receive 
any ;  that  I  heard  at  the  time  that  a  stag-hunt  would  not  be  offered  to  us,  because  the  stag-hounds 
belonged  to  some  near  relation  of  a  gentleman  much  respected  in  the  country,  who  had  just  died 
suddenly,  and  was  not  buried.  I  recollect  passing  by  the  gates  of  his  place,  and  seeing  two  men 
in  deep  mourning,  with  weepers,  sitting  on  e;ich  side  of  the  gate.  As  I  had  never  belore  seen  this 
custom,  I  made  inqiury,  and  was  told  why  they  mourned,  and  who  for  ;  and  this  confirmed  and 
fixed  in  my  memorj-  what  I  have  above  mentioned."* 

'  The  matter-  of- fact  mind  of  Maria  Edgeworth  receives  illustratioii  from  the  following  letter  which  she  required 
her  sister  to  write  : — 

"  Dear  !Mrs.  Hall, — !My  re  collection  of  the  circumstances  mentioned  by  my  sister  at  KiUamey.  in  1825,  exactly 
coincides  with  hei-s.  I  rememher  our  "being  told,  as  we  drove  into  Killarney,  that  we  should  have  no  stag-hunt,  as 
the  master  of  the  hounds  had  died  that  morning. 

"  Yours  truly, 

"  Tfinr,  19(7i  Junt,  '43."  "  Habeiet  Bdtlee, 


I 


MARIA    EDGEirORTH. 


I  have  quoted  from  the  last  letter  Mrs.  Hall  received  from  Miss  Edgeworth ;  it 
may  be  permitted  me  to  make  an  extract  from  the  first,  dated  July  30,  1829,  in 
reference  to  Mrs.  Hall's  earliest  literary  production,  ••  Sketches  of  Irish  Chai-acter  : '" — 

'•  It  has  been  sometimes  my  fate  to  have  srratitude  and  sinrerity  struggling  within  me  when 
I  have  begun  a  letter  of  ihanis  to  authors  ;  I  have  no  such  struggle  now,  but  with  pleasure 
unmixed,  and  perfect  freedom  of  mind  and  ease  of  conscience,  I  write  to  you.  The  '  Sketches  ot 
Irish  Character '  are.  in  my  opinion,  admirable  for  truth,  pathos,  and  humour  ;  uU.  the  sketches 
show  complete  knowledge  of  the  persons  and  things  represented,  and  some  of  the  portraits  are 
drawn  with  imcommon  strength,  and  with  more  decided  and  Jine  touches,  which  mark  a 
masterly  hand." 

I  may  quote  this  generous  tribute  to  a  writer  concerning  Ireland  -svho  Tvas  then 
entering  a  career  from  -^hich  Miss  Edgeworth  was  about  to  retire.  There  are  other 
parts  of  the  letter  I  abstain  from  quoting ;  but  the  reader  of  this  Memory  will  readily 
appreciate  the  eftect  on  the  then  young  author  of  ■•  Sketches  of  Irish  Character." 

Although  it  foiTas  no  part  of  our  plan  in  this  series  of  ••  Memories ""  to  bring 
under  review  the  works  of  the  authors  we  commemorate,  it  is  impossible  to  treat  of 
Maria  Edgeworth  without  some  observations  on  the  influence  of  her  writings.  She 
had  one  great  advantage  over  almost  aU  others — she  never  itroie  for  bread;  she  was 
never  compelled  to  furnish  a  pubhsher  with  so  much  matter  at  so  much  per  sheet.  In 
her  home  there  was  always  independence — entii-e  freedom  from  debt,  and  with  few 
responsibilities  beyond  those  that  appertain  to  a  household.  At  Edgeworthstown 
there  was  emphatically  that  of  which  the  poet  tells  us — 

"  Eeason's  whole  pleasnie.  all  the  joys  of  seii«>, 
lie  in  three  words— health,  peace,  and  competence." 

It  is  to  their  honour  that  women  were  the  first  to  use  the  pen  in  the  service  of 
Ireland.  At  the  beginning  of  the  century,  a  buffoon,  a  knave,  and  an  Irishman  were 
synonvmous  terms  In  the  novel  or  on  the  stage ;  they  were  deemed  exceptions  who 
did  honour  to  their  country ;  and  although  a  gentUnian  from  Ii-eland,  in  contradis- 
tinction to  an  I,ish  gentleman,  was  considered  everywhere  the  perfection  of  grace, 
refinement,  and  chivalric  courtesy,  there  were,  unhappily,  too  many  '-specimens  ' 
who  gave  force  to  prejudice  and  confounded  the  aU  Tsith  the  many.  Chui-chill  wrote, 
more  than  a  century  ago — 

"  Lone  from  a  cotmtrr  ever  hardlv  used, 
At  random  censured,  wantonlv  abused, 
Have  Britons  drawn  the  shaft,  with  no  kmd  view, 
And  jndged  the  many  by  the  rascal  few." 

When  prejudice  was  at  its  height-about  the  time  of  '•  the  rnion' -two  women 
with  opposite  views,  and  very  opposite  training,  but  moved  by  the  same  ennobling 
patriotism,  "rose  to  the  rescue  "-Miss  Owenson,  afterwards  Lady  Morgan,  by  the 
vivid  rornanee,  and  Miss  Edgeworth  by  the  stern  reality  of  actual  portraiture  forcmg 
justice  from  an  unwilHng  jury,  spreading  abroad  the  knowledge  of  Irish  character, 
and  portraving,  as  tHl  then  they  had  never  been  portrayed,  the  chivah-y,  generosity, 
and  devotedn^ss  of  Iri.h  nature.  They  succeeded  largely  in  evaporating  suspicion, 
in  overcoming  prejudice,  by  obtaining  ready  hearers  of  appeals.  ^ either  of  these 
eminent  and  greatly-endowed  ladies  did  by  any  means  ignore  the  laults,  senous  or 


MEMORIES. 


1 


trivial,  of  their  countrymen  and  countrywomen;  but  they  made  conspicuous  their 
virtues,  maintained  their  right  to  respect  and  their  claim  to  consideration,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  obtaining  verdicts  in  their  favour  from  adverse  judges  and  reluctant  juries. 
It  is  indeed  a  privilege  to  render  homage  to  the  memory  of  this  admirable 
woman.  Her  works  are  "  not  for  an  age,  but  for  all  time."  They  were  marvels 
in  her  day,  two-thirds  of  a  century  ago,  when  either  coarseness  or  frivolity  was  too 
generally  the  staple  of  the  author.  Her  afi'ection  for  Ireland  was  fervent  and  earnest, 
yet  she  was  of  no  party,  even  in  that  age  and  country.  She  had  enlarged  sympathies 
and  views  for  its  advancement ;  neither  prejudice  nor  bigotry  touched  her  mind  or 
heart.  Her  religious  and  political  faith  was  Christian,  in  the  most  extended  sense  of 
that  holy  word  ;  a  literary  woman,  without  vanity,  affectation,  or  jealousy  ;  a  perfect 
woman — 

"  Not  too  pure  nor  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food." 

Studious  of  all  home  duties,  careful  for  all  home  requirements,  ever  actively 
thoughtful  of  all  the  offices  of  love  and  kindness  which  sanctify  domestic  life,  genius 
gave  to  her  the  rare  power  to  be  useful  during  seventy  of  her  eighty- three  years. 
Her  life  was,  indeed,  a  practical  illustration  of  Milton's  lines — 

"To  know 
That  which  about  us  lies  in  daily  life 
Is  the  prime  wisdom." 


BAKBAEA  HOFLAND. 


I  ASSOCIATE  the  name  of  this  good  and  most  useful  woman  with  that  of  Maria 
Edgeworth,  mainly  because  the  one  loved  the  other,  and  that  both  were  actuated 
by  the  same  holy  thought — "  to  do  good  and  to  distribute."  She  was  one  of  our 
earliest  and  latest  friends ;  we  knew  her  in  1825,  when  with  her  husband,  the  artist, 
she  lived  in  the  then  "Artists'  Quarter,"  Newman  Street ;  when  residing  at  Edwardes 
Square,  Kensington  ;  and  during  her  brief  period  of  widowhood  at  Richmond. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Robert  Weeks,  a  partner  in  an  extensive  manu- 
factory at  Sheffield,  and  was  born  in  1770.  Her  father  died  when  she  was  very 
young.  Her  mother  soon  afterwards  married  again,  and  Barbara  was  taken  and 
brought  up  by  an  aunt.  She  married,  at  the  age  of  twenty-six,  Mr.  T.  Bradshaw 
Hoole,  a  very  worthy  young  man,  connected  with  a  mercantile  house  at  Sheffield. 
She  always  spoke  of  that  portion  of  her  life  as  her  happiest.  It  lasted  not  long, 
however,  for  Mr.  Hoole  and  their  eldest  child  died  in  little  more  than  two  years  after 
their  marriage.  She  was  left  with  an  infant  son  four  months  old ;  and  the  little 
property  that  belonged  to  her  was  lost  by  the  bankruptcy  of  a  trustee.  These 
misfortunes  determined  her  to  publish,  in  1805,  a  volume  of  poems ;  it  was  eagerly 
subscribed  for  by  the  people  of  Sheffield,  who  were  proud  of  her  from  first  to  last. 
With  the  proceeds  she  established  a  school  at  Harrogate,  and  continued  to  write  and 
publish  other  small  works  from  time  to  time.     Eleven  years  after  the  death  of  her 


I 


BARBARA    HOFLAND. 


first  husband  she  married  Mr.  T.  C.  Hofland,  the  landscape  painter,  and  removed  to 
London.^  In  1812  she  wrote  five  works,  among  which  was  ''  The  Son  of  a  Genius," 
and  continued  writing,  more  or  less,  every  succeeding  year. 

Her  son  by  Mr.  Hoole  was  educated  for  the  Church,  became  curate  of  St 
Andrew,  Holborn,  and  died  in  March,  1883.  She  loved  him  dearly,  and  he  as 
dearly  loved  her.  She  never  spoke  of  him  without  tears.  Her  second' married  life 
was  not  happy.  Hofland  was  a  man  who  thought  of  himself  only,  and  seemed 
indifferent  to  his  wife's  fame.  Few,  however,  saw  the  skeleton  in  her  house ;  and 
although  we  knew  well  that  her  home  was  not  one  of  comfort  and  hope,  we  Lever 
heard  her  utter  a  complauat  or  expose  any  "  weakness  "  of  her  husband.*  Her  natm-e, 
though  seldom  joyous,  was  always  cheerful ;  moreover,  it  was  toned  by  genuine  piety 
and  unlimited  trust.  In  person  she  was  plain ;  but  the  soundness  of  her  heart,  the 
vigour  of  her  mind,  and  her  deeply-rooted  religious  faith  gave  to  her  face  charms 
which  her  features  lacked ;  and,  like  the  friend  we  have  depicted,  she  did  not  seem 
to  require  beauty. 

One  of  her  earliest  friends  was  James  Montgomery.  He  records,  in  1803  he 
used  to  visit  her,  then  an  interesting  young  widow,  in  order  to  "read  and  talk  over 
and  correct  the  poems  which  I  afterwards  printed  for  her."  How  much  the  destiny 
of  these  two  might  have  been  changed,  and  how  much  happier  both  might  have 
been,  if  this  intimacy  had  led  to  marriage  !  In  1810,  when  Montgomery  was 
canvassing  Eoscoe  for  aid  in  electing  Hofland  as  an  associate  of  the  Liverpool 
Academy  of  Arts,  he  thus  wrote  of  her:  "  She  is  a  woman  of  singular  genius,  and  I 
have  known  her  through  so  many  sorrows  and  sufferings  acting  a  generous,  and,  in 
many  cases,  a  glorious  part."     We  indorse  that  opinion  from  intimate  knowledge  of 

her,  long  years  afterwards.     Miss  Mitford,  writing  of  her  to  Mrs.  Hall,  says "  She 

is  an  inestimable  woman  ;   good,  kind,  and  true  ;   and  of  a  sort  of  goodness  that  is 

becoming  more  and  more  rare  every  day."     And  in  another  letter  she  writes "  She 

is  womanly  to  her  finger-ends,  and  as  truth-telling  and  independent  as  a  sky-lark." 

She  wrote  nearly  a  hundred  books,  chiefly  for  the  young.  They  were  very  popular  • 
some  of  them,  indeed,  are  so  to  this  day ;  and  they  were  translated  into  many  of  the 
languages  of  Europe. 

Her  home  duties  were  ever  the  first  in  her  heart  and  mind. 

I  do  not  know  who  wrote  this,  but  it  is  an  estimate  fully  and  entirely  true  : — 

"  As  the  inculcator  of  the  vitnl  importance  of  fixed  principles  of  justice,  honour,  and  inteorilv— 
of  Christian  virtues  founded  upon  Chrislian  failh — of  all  that  is  truly  noble  in  man  and  lovely  in 
woman — Mrs.  Hofland,  i'rom.  the  nature  of  her  compositions  and  the  extent  of  their  circulation 
has  perhaps  done  more  than  any  other  writer  of  the  day.  The  religion  which  she  makes  the 
groundwork  of  all  this,  and  which  she  has  the  art  of  making  her  readers  teach  themselves,  is 
religion  in  its  best  form  ;  unohtrusive,  and  yet  unfailing ;  gentle,  yet  active  ;  modest,  yet  firm  ■ 
moderate,  kind,  and  consistent,  without  sourness,  bigotry,  or  enthusiasm.  This  religion  she  has 
not  only  inculcated,  but  practised,  under  trials  greater  than  any  she  has  described." 

The  work  by  which  she  is  best  known,  and  which  has  gone  through,  perhaps, 

*  She  was  always  ready  with  some  excuse  for  Hofland's  selfishness  and  outbreaks  of  temper,  attributing  them  to 
the  vexations  incident  to  an  artist's  life,  or  to  the  suflferings  he  endui-ed  from  some  hidden  source  of  frequent  illness. 
When  he  died,  I  remember  her  telling  me,  with  somewhat  of  a  tone  of  triumph,  that  he  had  died  of  cancer  in  the 
stomach,  which  accounted  for  his  continued  irritation  and  all  his  other  faults. 


[24  MEMORIES. 


1 


fifty  editions,  having  been  often  translated,  is  "  The  Son  of  a  Genius."  It  was 
published  by  Harris,  once  a  famous  bookseller  at  the  corner  of  St.  Paul's,  a  house 
which  an  excellent  and  liberal  firm  of  publishers  of  children's  books  now  inhabit. 
She  received  for  it  ten  pounds.  It  was  so  rapidly  and  frequently  reprinted,  that  the 
publisher  made  by  it  as  many  hundreds.  I  remember  Mrs.  Hofland  telling  me  one 
day  she  had  that  morning  called  upon  Harris  concerning  a  nev/  edition — time 
(twenty-eight  years)  having  exhausted  his  claim  to  the  copyright,  which  conse- 
quently reverted  to  her.  The  worthy  publisher  refused  to  acknowledge  any  such 
right,  protesting  against  it  on  the  ground  that  such  a  thing  had  never  happened  to 
him  before !     The  discussion  ended  in  his  giving  the  author  another  ten  pounds. 

She  died  at  Richmond,  Surrey,  on  the  9th  November,  1844 ;  and  a  monument  to 
her  memory  was  placed  in  the  church  there  by  a  few  admiring  friends. 

Hofland  was  an  excellent  artist  and  an  accomplished  man.  Miss  Mitford  said  of 
him  that  "he  talked  pictures  and  painted  poems."  His  works  have  failed  to  find 
popularity,  or,  to  speak  more  correctly,  "buyers,"  in  this  age  of  art  -  patronage ; 
yet  few  painted  English  scenery  with  more  force  and  truth.  He  who  has  Hofland's 
picture  of  "  Richmond  Hill "  has  one  of  the  treasures  of  British  art. 


GEACE  AGUILAR. 


Although  there  is  little  "  in  common  "  between  those  of  whom  I  have  here  written 

and  this  excellent  Jewish  lady,  I  know  that  neither  of  them  would  be  displeased  at  • 

my  associating  her  name  with  theirs  ;  they  would  have  loved,  esteemed,  and  honoured 

her  if  they  had  been  of  her  friends  in  life.     Though  the  earnest,  fervent,  and  devoted 

advocate  of  the  faith  in  which  she  was  born — firmly  believing  it  to  be  right,  and 

acting  always  in  accordance  with  such  belief — she  was  Christian  in  all  the  loftiest 

and  noblest  essentials  of  that  creed :  charitable,  merciful,  upright,  and  true.     She 

died  young,  and  I  am  very  sure  has  joined  that  hierarchy  of  heaven — the  just  made 

perfect — who  worship  and  adore  without  let  or  hindrance  from  earth.     The  years  of 

her  pilgrimage  were  few,  but  they  were  employed  in  active  and  continual  labour  to 

promote  the  good  of  humankind ;  she  was  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  a  zealous 

worker  in  the  service  of  her  Grod,  and  in  practically  impressing  the  solemn  truth  of  the 

"  new  commandment,"  that  ye  love  one  another.     Her  capacity  for  labour,  although 

her  frame  was  very  slender  and   her  constitution  ever  "  delicate,"  was  positively 

astounding.     She  has  bequeathed  a  store  of  treasure  in  literature  of  great  value,  and 

of  which  it  is  scarcely  too  much  to  say — it  might  be  bound  up  with  the  Bible ;  the 

Bible  of  the  Jews  or  the  Bible  of  the  Christians. 

We  had  the  privilege  to  know  her  intimately  during  the  later  years  of  her  career 

in  letters.     Here  is  Mrs.  Hall's  portrait  and  recollection  of  one  of  the  best  of  "  the 

women  of  Israel :  " — 

"  At  oor  first  introduction  we  were  slruck  as  much  by  the  earnestness  and  eloquence  of  her 
conversation  as  by  her  delicate  and  lovely  countenance.  Ber  person  and  addret'swere  exceedingly 
prepossessing,  her  eyes  of  the  deep  blue  that  looks  almost  black  in  particular  lights,  and  her  hair 


GRACE  AGUILAR. 


dark  and  abundant.  There  was  no  attempt  at  display,  no  affectation  of  learning ;  no  desire  to 
obtrude  '  me  and  my  books  '  upon  any  one,  or  in  any  way  ;  in  all  things  she  was  graceful  and  well 
bred.  You  felt  at  once  that  she  was  a  carefully-educated  gentlewoman,  and  if  there  was  more 
warmth  and  cordiality  of  manner  than  a  stranger  generally  evinces  on  a  first  introduction,  we 
remembered  her  descent,*  and  that  the  tone  of  her  studies,  as  well  as  her  passionate  love  of  music 
and  high  musical  attainments,  had  increased  her  sensibility.  Wlien  we  came  to  know  her  better, 
■we  were  charmed  and  surprised  at  her  extensive  reading,  her  knowledge  of  foreign  literature,  and 
actual  learning,  relieved  by  a  refreshing  pleasure  in  juvenile  amusements.  Each  interview 
increased  our  friendship,  and  the  quantity  and  quality  of  her  acquirements  commanded  our 
admiration.  She  had  made  acquaintance  with  the  beauties  of  English  nature  during  a  long 
residence  in  Devonsbire,  loved  the  country  with  her  whole  heart,  and  enriched  her  mind  by  the 
leisure  it  afforded.  She  had  collected  and  arranged  conchological  and  mineralogical  specimens  ; 
loved  flowers  as  only  sensitive  women  can  love  them  ;  and  with  all  this  was  deeply  read  in 
theology  and  history.  Whatever  she  knew,  she  knew  thoroughlj- ;  rising  at  six  in  the  morning, 
and  giving  to  each  hour  its  employment;  cultivating  and  exercising  her  home  affections,  and 
keeping  open  heart  for  many  friends.  All  these  qualities  were  warmed  by  a  fervid  enthusiasm 
for  whatever  was  high  and  holy.  She  spurned  all  envy  and  uncharitableness,  and  rendered  loviny: 
homage  to  whatever  was  great  and  good.  It  was  difficult  to  induce  her  to  speak  of  herself  and 
her  own  doings.  After  her  death  it  was  deeply  interesting  to  hear  from  the  one  of  all  others  who 
loved  and  knew  her  best,  her  mother,  of  the  progress  of  her  mind  from  infancy  to  womanhood ; 
it  proved  so  convincingly  how  richly  she  deserved  the  affection  she  inspired." 

She  was  born  at  Hackney,  in  Jtme,  1816,  and  died  at  Frankfort,  in  July,  1847. 
Her  many  works  exhibit  rare  industry;  that  entitled  "The  Women  of  Israel"  is, 
perhaps,  the  best  known  ;  it  is  in  high  favour  with  readers  of  all  denominations  in 
religion ;  it  interferes  with  no  prejudice.  Nearly  as  much  may  be  said,  indeed,  of 
all  her  other  books ;  but  that  especially  illustrates  a  History  sacred  alike  to  those 
who  adore  the  Living  God  of  Gentile  and  of  Jew. 

When  in  Frankfort  some  years  ago,  we  visited  the  grave  of  this  admirable 
woman  :  in  the  ground  allotted  to  the  Jews  as  their  burying-place  in  the  Free  City, 
we  found  it  in  a  corner,  near  to  that  in  which  Protestants  are  interred.  A  head- 
stone marks  the  spot ;  upon  it  are  carved  a  butterfly  and  five  stars,  and  this 
inscription  : — 

"  G-ive  her  the  fruit  of  her  hands,  and  let  her  own  works  praise  her  in  the  gates."— Prov. 
chap.  xxxi.  31. 

It  will  be  to  say  enough  of  Grace  Aguilar  if  we  quote  part  of  an  address 
presented  to  her  by  several  Jewish  ladies  previous  to  her  departure  from  England 
for  Germany. 

"Dear  Sistee,— Our  admiration  of  your  talents,  our  veneration  of  your  character,  our 
gratitude  for  the  eminent  services  your  writings  render  our  sex,  our  people,  our  faith,— m  which 
the  sacred  cause  of  true  religion  is  embodied,— all  these  motives  combme  to  induce  us  to  intrude 
on  your  presence  in  order  to  give  utterance  to  sentiments  which  we  are  happy  to  feel  and 
delisted  to  express.  Until  you  arose,  it  has,  in  modern  times,  never  been  the  case  that  a 
woman  in  Israel  should  stand  forth  the  public  advocate  of  Israel ;  thai  with  the  depth  and 
purity  which  is  the  treasure  of  woman,  and  the  strength  of  mmd  and  extensive  knowledge  that 
form  the  pride  of  man,  she  should  call  on  her  own  to  cherish,  on  others  to  respect,  the  truth  as  it 

is  in  Israel.  ,        ,  ,        ,    t  j  •  i 

"  You,  sister,  have  done  this,  and  more.  You  have  taught  us  to  know  and  appreciate  our  own 
dignity  ;  to  feel  and  to  prove  that  no  female  character  can  be  more  pure  than  that  ol  the  Jewish 


*  Grace  Aguilar's  family  fled  to  England  to  escape  Spanish  and  Portuguese  persecutions,  and  some  of  them 
found  homes  and  fortunes  in  the  West.     Her  mother's  name  was  Diaz  h  ernanaez . 


maiden— none  more  pious  than  that  of  the  woman  in  Israel.  You  have  vindicated  our  social  and 
spiritual  equality  in  the  faith  ;  you  have,  by  your  excellent  example,  triumphantly  refuted  the 
aspersion  that  the  Jewish  religion  leaves  unmoved  the  heart  of  the  Jewish  woman  ;  while  your 
writinj^s  place  within  our  reach  those  higher  motives,  those  holier  consolations,  which  flow  from 
the  spirituality  of  our  religion,  which  urge  the  soul  to  commune  with  its  Miiker,  and  direct  it  to 
J  lis  grace  and  His  mercy,  as  the  best  guide  and  protector  here  and  hereafter." 


CATHEEINE  SINCLAIR. 

In  August,  1864,  this  admirable  and  most  accomplished  lady  died  at  Kensington,  in 
the  Vicarage  House  of  her  brother,  the  venerable  and  good  Archdeacon.  It  was  our 
high  and  valued  privilege  to  knovi^  her  well,  and  to  love  her  much.  As  a  neighbour 
and  a  friend  we  obtained  her  regard,  and  that  of  her  excellent  sister.  Lady  Glasgow, 
who  has  since  passed  away,  as  also  has  our  valued  friend  the  Archdeacon.  The 
sisters  worked  "  hand  in  hand,"  all  their  lives  long,  to  advance  the  interests  of 
humanity  by  promoting  the  cause  of  God,  and  they  have  left  a  gracious  memory — 
that  of  the  one  to  a  large  circle,  and  that  of  the  other  to  mankind,  for  whose  welfare 
she  laboured  earnestly  and  long. 

Catherine  Sinclair  was  the  daughter  of  the  Right  Honourable  Sir  John  Sinclair, 
Bart.,  the  well-known  agriculturist  and  financier  of  the  days  of  George  III.,'''-  by  the 
Honourable  Diana,  only  daughter  of  the  first  Lord  Macdonald,  chieftain  of  the  ancient 
clans,  and  the  lineal  representative  of  the  Lords  of  the  Isles.  She  was  born  in  the 
year  1800,  and  began  to  write  and  publish  early.  She  was  high  born  and  high  bred, 
but  practically  carried  out  the  injunction  to  "  condescend  to  men  of  low  estate ;  "  for 
her  toil,  apart  from  her  books,  was  mainly  to  advance  the  temporal  and  eternal 
welfare  of  the  poor  and  needy. 

Miss  Sinclair  wrote  for  Messrs.  Chambers  a  Memoir  of  her  father,  who  died  in 
1835.     I  extract  from  that  Memoir  the  following  passage  :- — • 

"  *  He  was  the  most  indefatigable  man  in  Europe,  and  the  man  of  the  largest  acquaintance  : ' 
thus  said  the  Abbe  Gregoire  of  the  late  Sir  John  Sinclair.  He  was  truly,  in  many  respects,  a 
very  extraordinary  person  ;  but  the  basis  of  all  his  distinction  lay  in  his  benevolent  and  disin- 
terested desire  to  be  useful  in  his  day  and  generation.  A  private  gentleman,  born  in  a  remote 
part  of  the  United  Kingdom,  he  became,  purely  through  his  zeal  for  the  good  of  the  communitj', 
one  of  the  most  conspicuous  and  one  of  the  most  honoured  men  of  his  age.  Besides  receiving 
diplomas  trom  twenty-five  learned  and  scientific  societies  on  the  Continent,  he  had  a  vote  of 
thanks  for  his  national  services  decreed  separately  to  him  by  twenty-two  counties  in  Great 
Britain,  as  well  as  by  numerous  towns,  where  he  was  gratefully  acknowledged  as  a  general  bene- 
factor to  his  country." 

Sir  John's  mother  was  a  sister  of  the  seventeenth  Earl  of  Sutherland  ;  and  some 
idea  of  the  early  training  he  received  may  be  obtained  by  the  following  extracts  from 
a  letter  written  by  her  to  him  on  her  death-bed  : — 

"  May  religion  and  virtue  be  the  rule  of  all  your  actions  ;  and  suffer  not  the  temptations  or 
allurements  of  a  vain  world  to  make  you  swerve  from  your  dut.y Adieu,  my  dearest  son, 

*  While  I  was  recalling  this  Memory  I  chanced  to  find  in  my  own  library  a  pamphlet  on  "Waste  Lands," 
"  presented  by  Sir  John  Sinclair  to  Colonel  Eobert  HaU,"— my  father,— in  1803. 


CATHERINE   SINCLAIR.  127 


till  we  meet  in  another  world,  as  I  trust  in  the  mercy  of  God,  and  through  the  merits  of  an  all- 
suf&cient  Saviour,  that  we  shall  meet  in  a  state  of  hliss  and  endless  happiness,  where  the 
wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  where  the  weary  are  at  rest." 

Miss  Sinclair's  position  in  society,  however,  enabled  her  to  picture  the  upper 
classes.  In  two  of  the  earliest  of  her  works,  "  Modern  Accomplishments  "  and 
"  Modem  Society,"  "  she  exposes  with  a  humour  peculiarly  her  own  the  prevailing 
absurdities  in  female  education,  felicitously  contrasting  the  actual  state  of  things  with 
what  education  ought  to  be,  and  depicting  with  admirable  truth  and  freshness  the 
characteristic  sentiment  and  conversation  of  fashionable  circles." 

Such  a  descent,  with  such  training,  produced  their  natural  fruit ;  and  it  is  giving 
her  by  no  means  too  high  a  position  if  we  place  her  among  the  best  and  most  useful 
of  the  authors  of  the  age. 

She  was  not  an  author  only.  Yisitors  to  Edinburgh  may  perceive  convenient 
seats  or  benches  in  some  of  its  leading  thoroughfares ;  they  were  placed  there  by 
Catherine  Sinclair.  The  first  public  fountain  erected  in  the  fair  city  was  built  at  her 
cost.  In  the  Scottish  metropolis  there  are  several  "  cooking  depots,"  where  working 
men  and  women  may  dine  well  for  four  pennies  :  the  two  earliest  of  them  were 
introduced  and  "inaugurated"  by  Catherine  Sinclair.  She  hired  a  large  hall,  and 
prevailed  on  many  of  her  friends  to  give  lectures  therein.  In  one  of  its  suburbs 
there  is  an  industrial  school,  in  which  girls  are  prepared  for  domestic  service  : 
Catherine  Sinclair  founded  it.  Some  very  aged  women  had  pensions  while  she 
lived — out  of  her  very  shallow  purse  they  were  supported ;  nay,  from  the  same 
source  was  provided  a  company  of  volunteers,  with  uniform,  a  band,  and  a  drill- 
sergeant.  All  these  things  we  know ;  and  perhaps  there  are  a  hundred  others  of 
which  we  know  nothing.  The  cabmen  of  Edinburgh,  when  she  died,  held  a  meeting 
to  record  their  gratitude  for  services  received,  directly  and  indirectly,  by  her  help ; 
and  if  not  her  "  chief  mourners,"  there  were  none  at  her  funeral  who  more  deeply 
grieved  for  their  loss  than  "  her  own  company  of  volunteers."  And  her  funeral  (for 
she  was  buried  in  her  native  city),  though  attended  by  many  high-born  and  courtly 
mourners,  was  "honoured"  by  the  "following"  of  hundreds  of  the  humbler  and 
poorest  classes  of  the  Scottish  metropolis. 

The  Queen  sent  this  message  to  her  relatives :— "  Her  Majesty  was  well 
acquainted  not  only  with  Miss  Sinclair's  literary  abilities,  but  also  with  her  constant, 
active,  and  successful  exertions  for  the  benefit  of  her  fellow- creatures."  And  there 
were  few  of  the  Queen's  subjects  who  knew  this  greatly  good  woman,  through  either 
her  charities  or  her  writings,  who  did  not  mourn  the  loss  of  a  true  and  loving  friend 
when  she  was  removed  from  earth  to  heaven. 

She  was  remarkably  tall — so,  indeed,  were  all  the  daughters  and  sons  of  Sir  John 
Sinclair.  The  steps  that.  led  to  their  hall  door  in  Edinburgh  were  known  as  the 
Giant's  Stairs,  and  it  was  said  the  baronet  had  more  than  sixty  feet  of  children  ! 
Her  form  was  dignified  ;  her  face  would  have  been  handsome,  but  that  it  was  much 
"pitted"  by  the  small-pox;  a  keenly-observant  and  yet  gentle  eye,  a  peculiarly 
pleasant  and  generous  mouth,  and  an  expansive  forehead,  gave  to  her  countenance 


128  MEMORIES. 


1 


the  expression  that  is  always  indicative  of  goodness.  She,  like  Maria  Edgeworth 
and  Barbara  Hofland,  needed  no  other  beauty  than  that  which  is  communicated  to 
the  features  by  the  soul. 

Eeligion  assumed  no  ascetic  character  with  Catherine  Sinclair ;  she  could  be 
merry  and  wise,  and  was  always  cheerful  ;  she  was  at  times  full  of  humour ;  some 
of  her  sayings,  indeed,  though  thoroughly  womanly,  might  be  circulated  as  examples 
of  pure  wit. 

The  following  sketch  (which  Lady  Glasgow  quotes  in  a  Memoir  of  her  sister, 
privately  printed)  was  written  by  Mrs.  Hall  soon  after  her  death : — 

"  la  composition  she  was  as  conscientious  as  in  all  other  things,  desiring  simply  to  strengthen, 
impress,  and  fortify  her  object — caring  comparatively  little  how  to  beautify  it  by  extraneous  orna- 
ment. In  whatever  she  did  she  was  faithfully  in  earnest,  perfectly  and  entirely  free  from  every 
idea  of  self.  She  sought  truth  with  the  diligence  and  simplicity  of  a  child,  whose  first  duty  is 
obedience.     In  her  it  was  obedience  to  the  will  of  her  Divine  Master. 

"Miss  Sinclair's  actual  home  was  in  Edinburgh;  she  was  only  in  London  during  'the 
season,'  where  she  was  claimed  by  ail  circles — the  literary,  the  scientific,  the  fashionable,  the 
artistic,  the  religious — her  enlarged  mind  and  quick  sympathies  finding  and  giving  pleasure 
wherever  she  went :  young  and  old  greeted  heri  advent  with  delight.  We  have  seen  many  a  fair 
gill  decline  a  quadrille  for  the  greater  pleasure  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  '  talk '  with  '  Miss 
Catherine.'  Gifted  with  great  quietness,  simplicity,  and  refinement  of  manner,  she  had  also  a 
certain  dignity  and  self-possession  that  put  vulgarity  out  of  countenance,  and  kept  presumption 
in  awe.  She  was  gifted,  as  indeed  are  all  her  family,  with  a  singularly  sweet,  soft,  and  rather 
low  voice,  with  remarkable  elegance  and  ease  of  diction,  a  perfect  taste  in  manners  and  conver- 
sation without  loquacity.  She  loved  the  world  because  it  was  God's  world,  and  the  people  thereof 
because  He  had  breathed  into  them  the  spirit  of  immortality.  If  Catherine  Sinclair  soughE~to 
establish  woman's  '  rights,'  it  was  simply  by  obtaining  a  wider  range  for  the  exercise  of  woman's 
duties.  Apart  from  the  '  strong-minded  '  clique  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  '  fast '  indelicacies  of 
younger  woinen  on  the  other,  Miss  Catherine  Sinclair  worked,  and  wearied  not.  Devoted, 
without  affectation  ;  faithful  to  her  Maker  and  her  fellow-creatures ;  without  guile ;  without  an 
atom  of  literary  jealousy  ;  a  woman  whom  it  was  a  privilege  and  an  honour  to  call  *  friend.'  " 


JAI^E  AND  ANITA  MAEIA  POETEE. 

I  KNEW  the  sisters  Jane  and  Anna  Maria  Portee  so  long  ago  as  the  year  1816,  when 
they  resided  with  their  brother,  a  physician,  at  Bristol.  I  was  a  lad  at  school;  but 
I  had  read  the  "  Scottish  Chiefs,"  and  the  author  of  that  most  popular  novel  was  to 
me  all  but  an  object  of  adoration.  Jane  Porter  was  then  in  the  zenith  of  her  beauty 
as  well  as  fame :  she  had  hosts  of  worshippers,  and  among  them,  it  is  no  exaggera- 
tion to  say,  there  were  princes  and  kings  ;  for  that  novel  had  made  its  way,  by 
translations,  into  nearly  every  court  of  Europe,  and  "  Tbaddeus  of  Warsaw  "  had 
been  proscribed  by  the  Emperor  Napoleon — he  who  was,  in  1816,  a  chained  eagle 
on  the  rock  of  St.  Helena.  I  can  even  now — though  more  than  sixty  years  have 
passed,  and  she  has  been  thirty  years  in  her  grave^recall  the  fine  form  and 
intellectual  grace  of  the  author,  then  a  woman  in  her  prime.  "  Waverley  "  had  not 
been  issued  when  Jane  Porter  was  a  Power  in  Fiction  ;  and,  although  an  almost 
total  eclipse  obscured  her  light,  if  it  did  not  altogether  destroy  her  renown,  when  a 
loftier  genius  absorbed  public  attention,  the  readers  of  her  novels  were,  and  ai 


JANE  AND   ANNA   AIARIA   PORTER. 


129 


enthusiastic  admirers  of  her  skill  in  devising  a  story,  and  her  talent  in  portraying 
character. 

We  may  marvel  at  the  enormous  popularity  her  romances  achieved.  They  would 
find  few  readers  now;  but,  as  I  have  elsewhere  observed,  fifty  or  sixty  years  ago, 
when  a  woman  wrote  a  book  she  became  an  idol ;  common-place  was  magnified  into 
genius ;  and  all  the  novel  readers  in  England — they  were  as  tens  then  to  thousands 
now — were  ready  to  kneel  in  homage  at  her  feet.  Let  the  most  easily  satisfied  try 
to  get  through  "  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw,"  and  he  will  wonder  how  it  was  possible  its 
author  could  have  obtained  such  renown. 


THE  COTTAGE  Or  MBS.  POETEE  AT  ESHBE. 


Their  mother  was  a  native  of  Durham— a  thorough  lady  in  all  respects.  Their 
father  was  an  Irish  gentleman  of  good  family,  and  had  been  an  officer  in  the  Ennis- 
killen  Dragoons.  The  mother  became  a  widow  not  long  after  her  marriage,  and 
resided  in  Edinburgh,  chiefly  to  be  within  reach  of  education  for  her  two  sons,  one  of 
whom,  afterwards  becoming'  Sir  Robert  Ker  Porter,  an  officer  of  rank  in  our  own 
army,  held  a  distinguished  post  in  the  service  of  Eussia,  and  was  a  man  of  mark- 
Many  can  remember  his  panorama  of  the  Storming  of  Seringapatam,  one  of  the  earliest, 
if  not  the  first,  of  the  pictures  of  that  class.  He  was  a  remarkably  handsome  man, 
and  had  married  a  Russian  princess. 

Jane  was  born  in  1776,  and  Anna  Maria  in  1781.  It  was  during  the  residence  of 
the  mother  and  sisters  at  Esher  that  we  knew  most  of  the  eminent  and  truly  estimable 


MEMORIES. 


1 


family.  They  lived  there  in  comparative  retirement  in  1828,  and  during  several 
subsequent  years,  resting  mainly  on  the  fame  and  means  they  had  acquired;  the  one 
largely,  the  other  to  a  limited  extent,  yet  suf&cient  for  limited  needs. 

It  Avas  a  pretty  cottage,  and  we  hope  is  so  still ;  the  neighbourhood  is  very  charm- 
ing, full  of  interesting  traditions  of  the  long  ago  :  their  little  garden  was  backed  by 
the  Park  of  Claremont :  some  relics  are  there  associated  with  Cardinal  Wolsey ;  and 
Hampton  Court  is  not  far  off.  There  the  mother  died,  and  in  the  adjacent  churchyard 
she  was  buried.  The  last  time  we  saw  Jane  we  promised  we  would  occasionally  visit 
her  grave,  and  we  have  done  so.     The  tomb  is  here  pictured. 


\<^ 


TUB   TOMB   OF   MRS.   POETEK. 


This  is  the  inscription  on  the  tomb 


"  Here  sleeps  in  Jesus  a  Cliristian  ■widow, 

Jane  Porter, 

Obit.  June  ISth,  1831  ;  ^tat.  86, 

The  beloved  mother  of  W.  Porter,  M.D.,  of  Sii-  Robert  Ker  Porter, 

And  of  Jane  and  Anna  Maria  Porter, 

Who  mourn  in  Hope,  humblj"-  trusting  to  be  bom  again 

With  her  unto  the  blessed  kingdom  of  their 

Lord  and  Saviour. 

Respect  the  grave,  for  she  ministered  to  the  Poor." 


I  borrow  Mrs.  Hall's  portraits  of  the  sisters  : 


"  No  two  sisters  of  the  same  parents  could  have  been  more  opposite  in  appearance :  Anna  Maria 
was  a  delicate  blonde,  with  a  riant  face  and  an  animated  manner  ;  I  had  almost  written  she  was 
peculiarly  Irish,  rushing  at  conclusions  where  Jane  would  have  paused  lo  consider  and  calculate. 
The  beauty  of  Jane  was  statuesque,  her  deportment  serious  though  cheerful,  a  seriousness  quite  as 
natural  as  her  sister's  gaiety.  They  both  laboured  diligently,  but  the  labour  of  the  one  seemed 
sport  when  compared  with  the  careful  toil  of  the  other.  The  mind  of  Jane  was  of  a  lofty  order ; 
she  was  intense,  ponderous  perhaps,  and  obviously  felt  more  than  she  said  ;  while  Anna  Maria  said 
more  than  she  felt.     They  were  a  pleasant  contrast,  yet  the  harmony  between  them  was  complete. 


yANE  AND  ANNA   MARIA   PORTER.  131 


Indeed,  an  artist  might  have  selected  them  as  apt  subjects  for  portraits  of  L' Allegro  and  II  Pen- 
seroso  ;  certainly  of  Thalia  and  Melpomene."  * 

I  insert  a  characteristic  letter  I  received  from  Jane  Porter  : — 

"  October  'loth,  1836. 
"  Dear  Mr.  Hall, 

"  I  -wish  to  tell  you  a  little  story,  byway  of  excuse  for  troubling  you  again  on  the 
subject  of  publishing  those  MSS.  I  sent  to  you  in  the  New  Monthhj.  In  shoit  (though  in  matters 
of  assisting  our  fellow-creatures,  beyond  themselves,  the  '  right  hand  should  not  know  what  the  left 
hand  does'),  I  am  one  whose  never  very  extensive  purse-strings  often  fail  in  meeting  the  stretch 
some  hard  necessity  may  require  of  them,  and  my  object  in  wishing  to  publish  those  papers  was  to 
meet  one  of  these  exigencies.  A  poor  lady,  whom  I  knew  in  my  own  youth, — beautiful,  admired, 
afiluent, — first  made  an  unfortunate  marriage,  then  was  left  in  struggling  circumstances  ;  and  from 
one  calamity  to  another  overwhelming  her,  she  has  some  time  been  reduced  to  so  depressed  and 
friendless  a  condition,  that,  as  a  last  attempt  to  obtain  a  bare  subsistence,  she  took  a  small  house  in 
Manchester  to  let  its  rooms,  except  one  for  herself  and  two  daughters,  and  her  parlour,  into  lodgings 
for  humble  occupants.  She  could  not  venture  engaging  a  place  suitable  for  persons  of  any  higher 
degree,  therefore  their  pay  could  not  but  be  humble  as  their  circumstances.  To  add  to  her  means 
a  little  I  recommended  to  her  collecting  a  few  books  to  let  out  in  the  way  of  a  circulating  library, 
and  what  amusing  books  of  my  own  that  I  had,  or  others  I  promised  from  kind  friends,  I  sent 
to  her.  But  of  course,  from  so  narrow  a  channel,  the  collection  could  be  but  small ;  the  profits 
therefore  short  of  any  mentionable  assistance.  Hence,  from  time  to  time,  as  almost  the  only  friend 
now  left  to  the  poor  friend  of  my  former  days,  she  turns  to  me  in  any  of  her  pecuniary  distresses, 
and  to  the  utmost  of  my  own  circumscribed  limits  of  power  I  relieve  them.  Her  times  for  paying 
rent  and  taxes  are  usually  her  trying  seasons,  for  the  fiuctuations  of  lodgers  often  leaves  her  quite 
a-strand.  In  apprehension  of  this,  lately,  and  in  short  to  save  their  daily  expenses,  Theodora,  her 
youngest  daughter  (to  whom  she  gives  charge  of  their  little  money  concerns),  has  denied  herself  all 

other  aliment  but  tea  and  dry  bread It  is  her  letter  in  acknowledgment  for  this  that  I 

inclose  to  you,  to  show  you,  in  her  own  artless  language,  a  little  of  her  story,  and  therefore  to 
explain  more  forcibly  than  my  own  could  do,  my  reasons  for  wishing  to  gather  a  few  pounds  by 
Christmas  by  the  publication  of  the  papers  I  sent  to  you,  for  indeed  her  succour  in  her  great  anti- 
cipated need.  "  Yours  most  true, 

"Jane  Pokter." 

When  we  last  saw  Jane  Porter  (for  Maria  died  many  years  before  her  sisterf — at 
MontpelUer,  near  Bristol,  in  1832),  it  was  at  Bristol,  in  her  brother's  house ;  she  was 
then  but  the  shadow  of  her  former  self,  and  could  not  rise  from  her  couch  without 
assistance  :  yet  she  had  the  grace  and  dignity  that  appertain  to  honoured  old  age,  and 
was  still  beautiful— the  beauty  of  age.  She  was  still  the  same  gentle,  holy-minded 
woman  she  had  ever  been,  bending  with  Christian  faith  to  the  will  of  the  Almighty — 
biding  her  time.  She  died  there  on  the  24th  of  May,  1850;  and  I  presume  she  is 
buried  in  that  city  of  neglected  and  forgotten  worthies.  As  with  the  other  admirable 
women  of  whom  I  have  here  given  Memories,  the  sisters  were  never  seduced  by 
pubhc  homage  to  neglect  the  duties  of  private  life.  They  were  hard  and  earnest 
workers  with  the  pen,  but  they  were  zealous  in  all  the  thoughts,  cares,  and  industries 
that  render  home  tranquil  and  happy.  They  were  prolific  authors,  nideed ;  but 
never  forgot  that  there  are  duties  more  paramount,  more  honourable— more  pro- 
fitable, in  truth,  in  the  better  sense  of  the  term— than  those  they  discharged  for  "  the 
public."  ■ 


the  ( 

Duke  of  Wurtemburg,  soon  after  she  published  ' 

't  MarU^published  a  book,  "Artless  Tales,"  in  1793,  when  she  was  but  thii'teen  years  old.    Jane  did  not  publish 
her  first  book,  '•  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw,"  until  ISO;). 

K    2 


132  MEMORIES. 


1 


I  have  thus  given  "Memories  "  of  seven  remarkable  women.  Each  was  a  bene- 
factor by  her  writings ;  these  writings  were  specially  designed  and  calculated  to 
uphold  the  position  of  women  in  the  several  relations  of  mother,  wife,  daughter, 
friend,  teacher,  and  companion ;  but  neither  Hannah  More,  nor  Maria  Edge  worth, 
nor  Barbara  Hofland,  nor  Jane  nor  Anna  Maria  Porter,  nor  Grace  Aguilar,  nor,  later, 
Catherine  Sinclair,  foresaw  a  period  when  a  wrangle  for  what  is  wrongly  called 
"  Woman's  Rights  "  would  not  only  be  forced  on  public  attention,  but  be  pressed, 
with  unseemly  compulsion,  on  the  Legislature ;  and  I  cannot  better  close  this  chapter 
than  by  printing  the  views  of  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall  on  this  all-important  and  somewhat 
engrossing  subject,  believing  that  the  truly  great  and  essentially  good  women  I  have 
described  would  have  "  entered  their  protests"  if  they  had  lived  to  see  the  peril  in 
which  certain  foolish  brawlers  are  striving  to  place  their  sex. 

It  is  matter  for  deep  regret,  for  intense  sorrow  indeed — "  be  it  spoken,  to  their 
shame" — that  women  have  recently  inaugurated  a  "movement"  for  the  creation  of 
what  they  call  "  Woman's  Rights,"  and  that  among  its  zealous,  but  unthinking  advo- 
cates are  a  few — very  few — Women  of  Letters.  I  do  not  find  many,  if  any,  whose 
views  are  entitled  to  much  attention,  or  whose  claims  to  be  heard  are  indisputable ; 
but  those  who  push  and  clamour  will  force  aside  the  judicious  and  just :  the  foohsh 
are  proverbially  bolder  than  the  wise;  some  will  "  rush  in"  where  others  "fear  to 
tread  :"  and  it  may  seem  that  those  who  are  silent  give  consent. 

I  believe  this  "  movement"  to  be  pregnant  with  incalculable  danger  to  men,  but 
especially  to  women  ;  and  that,  if  the  "  claims"  be  conceded  and  women  be  displaced 
from  their  proper  sphere,  society,  high  and  low,  will  receive  such  a  shock  as  must  not 
only  convulse,  but  shatter,  the  fabric,  which  no  after-conviction  and  repentance  can 
restore  to  its  natural  form. 

I  address  this  warning  to  my  sex,  and  from  the  vantage-ground  of  the  "  Old 
Experience,"  that — 

"  doth  attain 
To  something  of  prophetic  strain ; " 

and  I  earnestly  entreat  women  to  beware  of  lures  that  in  the  name  of  "  Electoral 
Rights" — the  beginning  of  the  end — would  deprive  them  of  their  power  and  lower 
their  position  under  a  pretence  to  raise  it. 

I  warn  women  of  all  countries,  all  ages,  all  conditions,  all  classes  : 

And  I  humbly  urge  upon  the  Legislature  to  resist  demands  that  are  opposed  to 
Wisdom,  Mercy,  and  Religion. 

When  women  cease  to  be  women,  as  regards  all  that  makes  them  most  attractive 
— and  that  must  inevitably  be  the  result  of  concessions  which  are  asked  for  as 
"rights,"  which  are,  indeed,  daringly  demanded  on  the  principle  that  the  Constitu- 
tion shall  recognise  no  distinction  between  women  and  men ;  that  whatever  men  are 
required  to  do,  women  shall  be,  at  the  least,  entitled  to  do — it  is  surely  mental  blind- 
ness which  cannot  foresee  the  misery  that  must  follow  the  altered  relations  and 
changed  conditions  of  both. 

I  do  not  consider  it  a  degradation  ;  but  whether  it  be  so  or  not,  I  am  quite  sure  the 


A 


WOMAN'S  RIGHTS.  133 


leading,  guiding,  and  controlling  impulse  of  women  is  to  render  themselves  agreeable 
and  helpful  to  men- — whether  by  beauty,  gentleness,  forethought,  energy,  intelligence, 
domestic  cares,  home-virtues,  toil-assistance,  in  "hours  of  ease,"  in  sickness,  or  amid 
the  perplexities,  anxieties,  disappointments,  and  labours  that  environ  life  :  it  is  so,  and 
ever  will  be  so,  in  spite  of  the  "  strong-minded"  who  consider  and  describe  as  humi- 
liation that  which  is  woman's  glory,  and  should  be  her  boast. 

That  custom  and  law  press  heavily  and  unjustly  on  women  cannot  be  doubted : 
they  will  be  benefactors  who  succeed  in  guarding  her  against  oppression,  in  obtaining 
for  her  protection,  and  in  securing  to  her  those  "rights"  which  are  based  on  policy 
and  justice ;  but  the  rights  that  are  calculated  to  make  women  happier  and  better  are 
very  different  from  those  that  are  designed  to  give  to  them  equality  with  men  as 
regards  pursuits,  avocations,  and  duties,  from  which  the  minds  of  all  rightly  thinking 
women  will  turn  with  instinctive  dread. 

It  is  easy  to  fancy  women  doing  men's  work — with  a  smile  and  a  sob  :  we  have 
some  sad  examples  of  so  revolting  an  evil ;  a  few  such  cases  in  England,  many  more 
in  continental  countries.  I  have  seen,  in  Bavaria,  a  woman  harnessed  with  a  cow 
to  the  plough,  the  men  and  horses  being  away  drilling  for  war;  and  in  the  "black 
country"  there  are  women  bending  all  day  long  under  shameful  burdens  from  the 
coal-pit  to  the  barge.  Not  long  ago  there  were  cases  even  worse :  legislation  has 
lessened  or  abrogated  many  of  them. 

Agitation  to  limit  women's  work  to  work  for  which  they  are  designed  by  nature — 
work,  physical  and  intellectual — would  be,  indeed,  a  duty.  But  that  is  not  what  the 
"  strong-minded"  want. 

The  advocates  of  Women's  Rights  do  not  contemplate  their  employment  as  soldiers 
and  sailors;  that  is  all.  The  Senate,  the  Bar,  the  Church— all  public  offices,  from 
that  of  the  First  Lord  of  the  Treasury  to  the  porter  who  stands  at  the  door  in  Down- 
ing Street,  are  to  be  opened  to  them.  The  subject  is  too  serious  for  ridicule  :  yet 
one  is  strongly  tempted  to  use  the  weapon  in  dealing  with  it.  It  would  be  easy  to 
picture  a  thousand  absurdities  that  must  arise  from  such  a  confusion  as  that  contem- 
plated;  and  easy  would  it  be  to  show  that  evils,  as  yet  scarcely  conceivable,  would 
issue  from  a  successful  attempt  to  place  woman  beside  man  as  his  competitor,  instead 
of  his  helpmate.  An  unwomanly  woman  is  always  avoided ;  a  masculme  woman  is 
more  repulsive  than  an  effeminate  man.  How  would  it  be  if  the  Legislature  decreed 
an  "  equaUty  "  that  places  the  one  in  the  position  of  the  other— outraging  the  plainest 
principles  of  nature,  and  the  obvious,  as  well  as  declared,  will  of  God  ? 

It  is  hard  to  believe  that  those  who  advocate  this  new  version  of  "Woman's 
Rights"  are  really  in  earnest— that  they  actually  desire  the  changes  announced  m 
their  programme.  No  doubt  some  designing,  or  ambitious,  or  "unsexed"  women, 
self-appointed  leaders,  have  led  weak  women  to  follow  them— sheep  gone  astray— and 
who  have  been  deluded  into  sanction  of  this  miserable  scheme.  The  number  is  small ; 
but  it  may  be  augmented  by  ignorance  and  prejudice  ;  nay,  by  a  false  hope  that  good 
may  come  out  of  evil— that  figs  may  grow  on  thistles,  and  grapes  on  thorns. 

I  beUeve  the  originators,  and  a  large  majority  of  the  sustainers,  of  this  monstrous 
project  are  not  members  of  any  Christian  church.     I  hope  it  is  so ;  for  those  who 


154  MEMORIES. 


accept  the  New  Testament  as  their  guide  can  have  no  fellowship  with  those  who  put 
aside  the  first  principles  of  its  inspired  teaching,  and  utterly  ignore  the  precepts  and 
example  of  our  Lord  and  his  Apostles.  It  is  Christianity  that  places  woman  in  her 
true  position  ;  and  those  who  would  remove  her  from  it  repudiate  the  faith  by  which 
she  is  elevated,  purified,  and  upheld.  A  woman  without  an  Altar  is  even  more 
degraded  than  a  woman  without  a  Hearth. 

Those  who  might  be  expected  to  make  their  way  to  high  places  in  professions,  or 
as  merchants  or  bankers,  or  even  manufacturers  or  traders,  must,  admittedly,  be  the 
best  of  the  sex  :  with  men  it  is  so  ;  the  intellectually  weak  seldom  succeed  in  gaining 
the  winning-post.  But  is  it  not  the  best  who  are  most  needed  to  rock  the  cradle, 
and,  in  the  higher  sense  of  the  phrase,  to  sweep  the  hearth,  ministering  to  the  needs 
and  comforts  of  man,  and  so  promoting  his  interests  and  happiness  as  well  as  her 
own  ?  Are  the  feeblest  and  the  worst  to  be  put  aside  for  the  duties  of  wifehood  and 
maternity?  or  are  all  "emancipated"  women  to  ignore  the  sacred  influences  of 
Home  ? 

Woman  has  immense  power ;  of  a  surety,  it  will  be  lessened,  and  not  increased, 
by  public  manifestation  of  it — by  a  proclamation  that  "she  rules" — by  an  inde- 
pendence that  destroys  all  trust — by  a  spirit  of  rivalry  and  a  struggle  for  pre- 
eminence which  are,  in  fact,  moral  and  social  death ! 

Yes ;  woman  lua^  immense  power.  It  is  the  mother  who  makes  the  man :  lone 
before  he  can  lisp  her  name,  her  task  of  education  is  commenced  ;  and,  to  be  effective, 
it  must  be  continuous.  Alas  for  those  who  can  teach  but  occasionally,  by  fits  and 
starts — at  wide  intervals,  between  which  there  must  be  blanks  or  worse  !  There  are 
many  to  whom  that  destiny  is  inevitable  ;  but  what  woman  so  utterly  sins  against 
nature  as  to  wish  for  it  and  seek  for  it '? 

It  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  "those  who  rock  the  cradle  rule  the  world." 
The  future  rests  mainly  with  the  mother ;  foolish  are  all,  and  wicked  are  some,  who 
strive  for  the  enactment  of  laws  that  would  deprive  her  of  her  first,  her  greatest,  her 
holiest  "rights,"  to  try  a  Avild  experiment  by  which,  under  the  senseless  cry  of 
"  equality,"  women  would  be  displaced  from  the  position  in  which  God  has  placed 
them,  since  the  beginning  of  the  world,  for  all  Time,  and  for  Eternity. ••' 

*  The  opinions  thus  expressed  by  Mrs.  Hall  were  referred  to  in  the  House  of  Commons  by  Mr.  Smollett,  the 
member  for  Dumbartonshire,  during  the  debate  on  the  iJGth  of  April,  1876,  Mr.  Forsyth  ha\-ing  moved  the  second 
reading  of  a  bill  to  extend  the  electoral  franchise  to  women ;  which  the  House  rejected  by  a  large  and  decisive 
majority,  the  numbers  being — for,  152 ;  against,  239. 


THOMAS    HOOD. 


?HEN  I  first  knew  Thomas  Hood,  his  star  was  but  rising ; 
when  I  saw  him  last,  he  was  on  his  death-bed ;  his 
forty -six  years  of  life  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave  having 
been  passed  in  so  weak  a  state  of  health,  that  day  by  day 
there  was  perpetual  dread  that  at  any  moment  might  "  the 
silver  cord  be  loosed,  and  the  golden  bowl  be  broken."  Con- 
tinual bodily  suffering  was  not  the  only  trial  to  which  this 
fine  spirit  was  subjected.  The  world  heard  no  wail  from 
his  lips ;  noappeal  for  sympathy  ever  came  from  his  pen ; 
his  high  heart  endured  in  silence ;  and,  without  a  murmur  of  com- 
plaint, he  died.  Yet  it  is  no  secret  now  that  for  many  years  he  had  a 
fierce  struggle  with  poverty;  enjoying  no  luxuries  and  few  comforts;  his 
"  means  "  derived  from  "  daily  toil  for  daily  bread."  A  skeleton  stood  ever 
beside  his  bed,  mocking  his  "  infinite  jest  and  most  excellent  fancy:  "  con- 
verting into  a  succession  of  sobs  those  "  flashes  of  merriment  that  were  wont 
to  set  the  table  in  a  roar."  At  the  time  when  nearly  every  drawing-room,  attic 
and  kitchen — when  every  class  and  order  of  society — was  made  merry  and  happy 
by  the  brilliant  fancies  and  genuine  humour  of  Thomas  Hood,  he  was  enduring 
pain  of  body  and  anguish  of  mind.  Nearly  all  his  quaint  conceits,  his  playfu 
sallies,  and  his  sparks  from  words  were  given  to  the  printer  from  the  bed  on  which 


136  MEMORIES. 


1 


he  wrote,  propped  up  by  pillows  ;  continually,  continually,  it  was  the  same,  up  to 
the  day  that  gave  him  freedom  from  the  flesh. 

Yet  it  was  a  genial  and  kindly  spirit  that  dwelt  in  so  frail  a  tenement  of  clay. 
Although  his  existence  was  a  long  disease  rather  than  a  life,  he  was  singularly 
free  from  all  cumbrance  of  bitterness  and  harshness.  Feeling  strongly  for  the 
sufferings  of  others,  he  was  entirely  unselfish,  ever  gracious,  considerate,  and 
kind.  Though  perpetually  dealing  with  the  burlesque,  he  never  indulged  in 
personal  satire.  We  find  no  passage  that  could  have  injured  a  single  living  person. 
Never  did  his  wit  verge  upon  indelicacy  ;  never  did  his  facetious  muse  treat  a 
solemn  or  sacred  theme  with  levity  or  indifference. 

In  old  Brandenburgh  House  there  was  once  a  bust  of  Comus  ;  the  pedestal, 
according  to  Lysons,  bore  this  inscription  :  it  comes  in  so  aptly  when  writing  of 
Hood,  that  I  quote  it : — 

"  Come,  every  muse,  without  restraint ; 
Let  genius  prompt  and  fancy  paint ; 
Let  wit  and  mirth,  and  ii'iendly  strife, 
Chase  the  dull  gloom,  that  saddens  life 
True  wit,  that  firm  to  virtue's  cause, 
Eespects  religion  and  the  laws ; 
Trae  mirth,  that  cheerfulness  supplies 
To  modest  ears  and  decent  eyes." 

The  world  has,  however,  done  justice  to  Thomas  Hood  ;  and  he  is  not  "  deaf  to 
the  voice  of  the  charmer."  Reason,  no  less  than  Holy  Writ,  will  tell  us  we  plant 
that  we  may  reap  ;  that  the  knowledge  of  good  or  evil,  done  is  retained  in  a  state 
after  life  ;  that  death  cannot  destroy  consciousness.  We  learn  from  the  Divine 
Word  that  our  works  do  follow  us.  Humanity  is — and  will  be  as  long  as  men  and 
women  can  read  or  hear— the  debtor  of  Thomas  Hood. 

"  Why  come  not  spirits  from  the  realms  of  glory 
To  visit  earth  as  in  the  days  of  old — 
The  times  of  ancient  writ  and  sacred  story  ? 
Is  heaven  more  distant  \  or  has  earth  grown  cold  ? 

"  To  Betlilehem's  air  was  their  last  anthem  given, 
When  other  stars  before  the  One  grew  dim  % 
Was  their  last  presence  known  in  Peter's  prison  ? 
Or  where  exalting  martyrs  raised  the  hymn  ?" 

Hood  was  born  "  a  cockney,"  on  the  23rd  of  May,  1799,  in  the  Poultry,  close  to 
Bow  Bells.  His  father  dwelt  there  as  one  of  the  partners  in  a  firm  of  publishers — 
Verner,  Hood,  and  Sharpe.*  He  was  articled  to  his  uncle,  Mr.  Robert  Sands,  an 
engraver,  and  seems  to  have  worked  a  while  with  the  burin ;  but  the  specimens  he 
has  given  us,  however  redolent  of  humour  and  rich  in  fancy,  do  not  supply 
evidence  that  he  would  have  excelled  as  an  artist. f  It  is  obvious,  indeed,  that 
he  did  not  "take"  to  the  profession,  for  he  deserted  it  early,  and  became  a  man 
of  letters,  finding  his  first  employment  in  1821,  as  a  sort  of  sub-editor  of  the  London 
Mayazine. 

*  Mr.  Sharpe  lived  to  he  an  old  man,  through  varied  changes  of  life,  and  in  1832  was  a  publisher  at  the 
Egyptian  Hall.  He  pubUshed,  among  other  works.  The  Anniversary,  an  annual,  edited  by  Allan  Cunningham. 
He  was  a  kindly  old  man  when  I  knew  him,  very  deaf,  with  much  literary  taste  and  many  hterary  sympathies. 

t  I  form  this  opinion  merely,  however,  from  his  published  engravings.  It  is  probable  that  the  wood  engravers 
did  not  do  him  justice.  His  daughter  possesses  some  dra-wings  in  water-colours,  some  pen-and-ink  sketches,  and 
some  etchings,  that  show  far  higher  powers,  and  seem  to  indicate  that  he  could  have  been  an  artist  if  he  had  given 
his  mind  to  art. 


■ 


THOMAS  HOOD. 


137 


One  who  knew  him  in  his  childhood  described  him  to  me  as  a  singular  child — 
silent  and  retired — with  much  quiet  humour,  and  apparently  delicate  health.  I 
knew  another  friend  of  his  youth,  a  Mr.  Mason,  a  wood  engraver,  who  told 
me  much  of  the  "  earlier  ways  "  of  the  boy- 
poet  ;  that  when  a  mere  boy  he  was  con- 
tinually making  shrewd  and  pointed  remarks 
upon  topics  on  which  he  was  presumed  to 
know  nothing ;  that  while  he  seemed  a 
heedless  listener,  out  would  come  some 
observation  which  showed  he  had  taken 
in  all   that   had    been   said  ;    and  that,  when 


a  very  child,  he  would  often  make  some 
pertinent  remark  which  excited  either  a  smile 
or  a  laugh. 

He  married,  on  the  5th  of  May,  1824,  the 
sister  of  his  "friend"  Reynolds.  It  was  a 
happy  marriage,  although  both  were  poor  ;  and 
it  was  "  Love  "  who  was  "  to  light  a  fire  in 
their  kitchen."  She  was  his  companion,  coun- 
sellor, and  friend  during  the  remainder  of  his 
troubled  life — the  comforter  in  whom  he 
trusted ;  in  mutual  love  and  mutual  faith 
realising,  all  through  their  weary  pilgrimage, 
the  picture  drawn  by  another  poet : — 


'  As  tiiito  the  bow  the  cord  is 
So  unto  the  man  is  woman. 
Though  she  bends  him  she  obeys  him  ; 
Though  she  draws  him,  yet  she  follows  ; 
Useless  one  without  the  other." 


When  first  I  knew  them  they  resided  in 
chambers.  No.  2,  Robert  Street,  Adelphi. 
While  writing  for  the  London  Magazine,  his 
labours  must  have  been  remunerative,  for  he 
removed  from  his  "lodgings"  in  the  Adelphi 
(where  a  child  was  boi'n  to  him,  who  died  in 
infancy),  first  to  a  pleasant  cottage  (then  called 
"  Rose  Cottage  ")  at  Winchmore  Hill  (where 
his  daughter  Fanny — Mrs.  Broderip — was 
born),  and  not  long  afterwards  to  a  really 
large  house  at  Wanstead — "  Lake  House  " — 
with  ample  "  grounds."  He  lost  a  considerable  sum  in  some  publishing  speculation  ; 
and  that  loss  early  in  his  career  was  the  cause  of  his  subsequent  embarrassment. 
At  Lake  House  the  younger  "Tom"  was  born.  It  was  originally  the  Banquet 
Hall  of  Wanstead  House  (Wellesley  Pole's  mansion),  and  there  was  a  lake  between 


the  two — now  dwindled  to  a  ditch.  Both  these  dwelling-houses  of  the  poet  I 
have  engraved. 

His  connection  with  the  London  Magazine  led  to  intimacy  with  many  of  the 
finer  spirits  of  his  time,  who  appreciated  the  genius  and  loved  the  genial  nature  of 
the  man.  Foremost  of  those  who  exchanged  warm  fiiendship  with  him  was 
Charles  Lamb. 

Owing  mainly  to  his  ill-health,  he  and  his  wife  went  but  little  into  society ;  so, 
indeed,  it  was  at  all  periods  of  their  lives.  Comparative  solitude  was,  therefore,  the 
lot  of  the  poet.     But  the  sacrifice  implied  little  of  self-denial.     With  wife,  children, 


hood's   residence  at  -WINCHJIOKE  HILL. 


and  friends,  he  could  easily  be  made  content ;  and,  although  no  doubt  fully  appre- 
ciating praise,  he  never  had  much  appetite  for  applause. 

His  long  residence  abroad — at  Coblentz  and  Ostend — was,  in  a  degree,  com- 
pulsory. His  publisher  was  a  craving  creditor — if,  indeed,  he  ever  was  really  a 
"creditor"  at  all,  which  I  have  reason  to  doubt.  It  was  not  without  difficulty  his 
return  to  England  was  eff'ected  in  the  year  1839.'''  My  intercourse  with  him  was 
renewed  in  the  small  dwelling  he  occupied  at  Camberwell.     He  was  there  to  be  near 


*  There  is  no  doubt  that  a  lawsuit,  in  which  he  was  involved  with  his  publisher,  and  the  worry  and  anxiety 
that  ensued,  induced  a  state  of  health  that  led  to  his  death  much  earlier  than,  in  the  course  of  nature,  it  might  have 
been  looked  for.    I  know  that  was  the  opinion  of  his  physician. 


I 


THOMAS  HOOD, 


139 


his  kind  friend,  Dr.  Robert  Elliot  (brother  of  Dr.  William  Elliot,  both  of  whom  dearly 
loved  the  poet),  "  a  friend  in  need  and  a  friend  indeed."  ■' 

It  is  in  no  degree  necessary  to  my  purpose  to  pass  under  review  the  works  of 
Thomas  Hood.  They  were  very  varied — novels,  poems  (serious  as  well  as  comic) — 
filling  seven  volumes  (exclusive  of  the  two  volumes  of  "  Hood's  Own  "),  collected  by 
his  daughter  and  his  son.     Nearly  the  whole  of  these  were  written,  not  only  while 


HOOD  S   EESIDEXCE   AT   \VAXSTEAD. 


haunted  by  pecuniary  troubles,  but  while  under  the  depressing  influence  of  great 
bodily  suffering.  So  it  was  with  the  merriest  of  his  poems,  "  Miss  Kilmansegg," 
composed  during  brief  intermissions  of  bodily  pain  which  would  have  been  accepted 


■'  It  is  pleasant  to  record  the  fact  that  nearly  every  hterary  man  or  woman  with  whom  I  have  beeri  acquainted, 
or  whose  lives  I  have  looked  into,  has  found  a  generous  and  disinterested  fnend  m  a  doctor.  I  could,  of  my  own 
to^Xdge  tell  many  anecdotes  of  the  sacrifices  made  to  mercy  by  members  of  the  profession ;  of  continuous  labours 
^tZShoueht  of  recompense  ;  of  anxious  days  and  nights,  by  sick  or  dying  beds,  without  the  reniotest  idea  of 
^ees  "I  X  tell  onfTa  doctor,  himself  gone  home;  it  was  related  to  me  by  Sir  James  Eyre,  M  D.  L^fo^"- 
natelv  I  have  forgotten  the  name  of  the  good  physician  ;  but  there  are,  no  doubt,  many  to  whom  the  story  will 
annlv  siTaS^caUed  upon  him  one  morning  when  his  career  was  but  commencing  and  saw  Ins  waiting-room 
thi^eed  ^th^atients  "Why,"  said  he,  "  you  must  be  getting  on  famously."  "  WeU,  I  suppose  I  am,"  was  the 
answer  '^ut  let  rnVtell  tMs  fact  to  you.  This  morning  1  have  seen  eight  patients  ;  six  of  them  gave  me  nothing- 
tLIeventh  gave  iS  a  guinea,  which  I  have  just  given  to  the  eighth."  Such  a  physician  Providence  sent  to  Thomas 
Hood. 


I40  MEMORIES. 


by  almost  any  other  person  as  sufficient  excuse  for  entire  cessation  from  work  ;  and, 
perhaps,  might  have  been  by  him,  but  that  it  was  absolutely  necessary  the  day's  toil 
should  bring  the  day's  food.  Yet  at  this  very  time  a  sum  of  £50  was  transmitted  to 
him,  without  application,  by  the  Literary  Fund.  Hood  returned  it,  "  hoping  to  get 
through  his  troubles  as  he  had  done  heretofore."  There  was  then  a  gleam  of  bright- 
ness in  the  long-darkened  sky.  In  1841  Theodore  Hook  died,  and  Hood  became 
editor  of  the  iV^ot;  Monthly  Magazine.  "  Just  then,"  as  Mrs.  Hood  writes,  "  poverty 
had  come  very  near."  He  removed  from  Camberwell  to  17,  Elm-Tree  Eoad, 
St.  John's  Wood.  He  did  not  long  keep  his  editorship,  however :  differences 
having  arisen  between  him  and  Mr.  Colburn,  he  was  induced  to  start  a  magazine  of 
his  own. 

Meanwhile,  an  accident,  totally  unanticipated,  did  that  which  years  of  labour 
had  not  done — made  him  famous.  In  the  Christmas  number  of  Punch,  in  1843, 
appeared  the  "Song  of  a  Shirt."  It  ran  through  the  land  like  wildfire;  was 
reprinted  in  every  newspaper  in  the  kingdom,  although  anonymous ;  and  there  was 
intense  desire  to  know  who  was  the  author.  He  had  been  so  long  absent  from  the 
active  exercise  of  his  "  calling,"  that  when  the  poem  burst  upon  world,  there  were 
many  to  whom  the  writer's  name  was  "new." 

In  January,  1844,  Hood's  Magazine  was  issued.  He  laboured  like  a  slave  to 
give  success  to  that  speculation.  It  was  in  a  melancholy  sense  "  Hood's  Own :  " 
there  was  a  "  proprietor,"  but  he  was  without  "  means ;  "  there  was  an  effort  to  do 
without  a  publisher ;  printer  after  printer  was  changed ;  the  magazine  was  rarely 
"up  to  time;"  vexation  brought  on  illness;  he  "fretted  dreadfully;  there  was 
alarm  as  to  the  solvency  of  his  co-proprietor,  a  man  who  had  "  lived  too  long  in  the 
world  to  be  the  slave  of  his  conscience."  Unhappy  authors,  who  are  their  own 
pubhshers — lords  of  land  in  Utopia — will  take  warning  by  the  fate  of  Thomas  Hocfd 
and  his  "  speculation  "  for  his  own  behoof.  It  was  a  failure,  and  therefore  his  :  had 
it  been  a  success,  no  doubt  it  would  have  become  the  property  of  a  publisher. 

The  number  for  June — the  sixth  number  of  Hood's  Magazine — contained  an 
announcement  that  on  the  23rd  of  May  he  had  been  striving  to  continue  a  novel  he 
had  commenced;  that  on  the  25th,  "sitting  up  in  bed,  he  tried  to  invent  and 
sketch  a  few  comic  designs,  but  the  effort  exceeded  his  strength,  and  was  followed 
by  the  wandering  delirium  of  utter  nervous  exhaustion."  Two  of  the  "  sick-room 
fancies"  were  published  with  the  June  number:  the  one  is  "Hood's  Mag." — a 
magpie  with  a  hawk's  hood  on;  the  other,  "The  Editor's  Apologies,"  is  a  drawing 
of  a  plate  of  leeches,  a  blister,  a  cup  of  water-gruel,  and  three  labelled  vials ; 
suggesting,  according  to  some  writing  underneath,  the  sad  thought  by  what  harrass- 
ing  efforts  the  food  of  mirth  is  furnished,  and  how  often  the  pleasures  of  the  many 
are  obtained  by  the  bitter  suffering  and  mournful  endurance  of  the  one. 

Yet  three  of  the  pleasantest  letters  he  ever  penned  were  written  soon  afterwards 
to  the  three  children  of  his  dear  and  constant  friend.  Dr.  Elliot. 

He  rallied,  however,  sufficiently  to  resume  work  for  his  magazine,  and  many 
valued  friends  were  willing  and  ready  to  help  him — authors  who  were  amply  recom- 
pensed by  the  knowledge  that  they  could  thus  serve  the  author  of  "  The  Song  of  a 


THOMAS  HOOD.  141 


Shirt."  "I  must  die  in  Harness,  like  a  Hero  or  a  Horse,"  he  writes  to  Bulwer 
Lytton  on  October  30th,  1844.  Death  was  drawing  nearer  and  nearer,  but  before  its 
close  approach  there  came  a  ray  of  sunshine  to  his  death-bed — Sir  Robert  Peel 
granted  to  him  a  pension  of  £100  a  year,  or  rather  to  his  widow,  for  she  was  almost 
so.  It  was  a  small  sum — a  poor  gift  from  his  country  in  compensation  for  the  work 
he  had  done  ;  but  it  was  very  welcome,  for  it  was  the  only  boon  he  had  ever  received 
that  was  not  payment  for  immediate  toil — "  toil  hard  and  incessant "  to  the  last.  He 
was  dying  when  the  "  glad  tidings  "  came ;  yet  in  the  middle  of  November,  1844,  he 
"  pumped  out  a  sheet  of  Christmas  fun,"  and  "  drew  some  cuts  "  for  his  magazine. 
He  was,  as  he  said,,"  so  near  death's  door,  that  he  could  almost  fancy  he  heard  the 
creaking  of  the  hinges  !  "  His  friends  were  about  him  with  small  gifts  of  love  :  they 
came  to  give  him  "  farewells  ;  "  and  for  all  of  them  he  had  kind  words  and  thoughts. 
On  the  3rd  of  May,  1845,  he  died,  and  on  the  10th  he  was  buried  in  the  grave- 
yard at  Kensal  Green. 

Some  seven  years  afterwards,  subscriptions  were  raised,  chiefly  owing  to  the 
exertions  of  a  kindred  spirit,  Ehza  Cook  (with  whom  the  thought  originated),  and 
a  monument  was  erected  to  his  memory,  designed  and  executed  by  the  sculptor, 
Matthew  Noble.  On  the  18th  of  July,  1854,  it  was  unveiled  in  the  presence  of  many 
of  the  poet's  friends,  Monckton  Milnes  (now  Lord  Houghton)  "  delivering  an  oration" 
over  the  grave  that  covered  his  remains.  To  raise  that  monument,  peers  and  many 
men  of  mark  contributed  ;  but  surely  even  higher  honour  was  rendered  to  him — a  yet 
purer  and  better  homage  to  his  memory  —  by  the  "poor  needlewomen,"  whose 
offerings  were  a  few  pence,  laid  in  reverence  and  affection  upon  the  grave  of  tbeir 
great  advocate — a  fellow- worker,  whose  toil  had  been  as  hard,  as  continuous,  and  as 
ill  rewarded  as  their  own. 

In  person  Hood  was  of  middle  height,  slender  and  sickly-looking,  of  sallow  com- 
plexion and  plain  features,  quiet  in  expression,  and  very  rarely  excited,  so  as  to  give 
indication  of  either  the  pathos  or  the  humour  that  must  ever  have  been  working  in 
his  soul.  His  was,  indeed,  a  countenance  rather  of  melancholy  than  of  mirth  :  there 
was  something  calm,  even  to  solemnity,  in  the  upper  portion  of  the  face,  seldom 
reheved,  in  society,  by  the  eloquent  play  of  the  mouth,  or  the  sparkle  of  an  observant 
eye.  In  conversation  he  was  by  no  means  brilliant.  When  inclined  to  pun,  which 
was  not  often,  it  seemed  as  if  his  wit  was  the  issue  of  thought,  and  not  an  instinctive 
produce,  such  as  I  have  noticed  in  other  men  who  have  thus  become  famous ;  who 
are  admirable  in  crowds ;  whose  animation  is  like  that  of  the  sounding-board,  which 
makes  a  great  noise  at  a  small  touch  when  Hsteners  are  many  and  applause  is  sure. 

We  have  been  so  much  in  the  habit  of  treating  Tom  Hood  as  a  "joker,"  that  we 
lose  sight  of  the  deep  and  touching  pathos  of  his  more  serious  poems.  All  are, 
indeed,  acquainted  with  "The  Song  of  a  Shirt"  and  "The  Bridge  of  Sighs,"  but 
throughout  his  many  volumes  there  are  poems  of  surpassing  worth,  full  of  the  highest 
refinement— of  sentiment  the  purest  and  the  most  chaste. 

In  writing  a  memoir  of  him  in  the  "  Book  of  Gems,"  for  which,  in  consequence 
of  his  absence  from  England,  I  received  no  suggestions  from  himself,  I  took  that 
view,  and  some  time  afterwards  I  received  from  him  a  letter  strongly  expressive  of 


142 


MEMORIES. 


1 


the  gratification  I  had  thus  afforded  him.  His  nature  was,  I  believe,  not  to  be  a 
punster,  perhaps  not  to  be  a  wit.-''  The  best  things  I  have  ever  heard  Hood  say  are 
those  vs^hich  he  said  when  I  was  with  him  alone.  I  have  never  known  him  laugh 
heartily,  either  in  society  or  in  rhyme.  The  themes  he  selected  for  "  talk  "  were 
usually  of  a  grave  and  sombre  cast ;  yet  his  playful  fancy  dealt  with  frivolities  some- 
times, and  sometimes  his  imagination  frolicked  with  nature  in  a  way  peculiarly  his 
own.  He  was,  however,  generally  cheerful,  and  often  merry  when  in  "  the  bosom 
of  his  family,"  and  could,  I  am  told,  laugh  heartily  then  ;  that  when  in  reasonably 


THE   HOUSE   IJT   WHJCII    HOOD   DIED. 


good  health,  he  was  "  as  full  of  fun  as  a  s^hcolboy."  He  loved  children  with  all  his 
heart ;  loved  to  gambol  Avith  them  as  if  he  were  a  child  himself ;  to  chat  with  them 
in  a  way  they  understood ;  and  to  tell  them  stories,  drawn  either  from  old  sources, 
or  invented  for  the  occasion,  such  as  they  could  comprehend  and  remember,  f  There 
was  more  than  mere  poetry  in  his  verse— 

"A  blessing  on  tlieii'  merry  hearts. 
Such  readers  I  would  choose, 
Because  they  seldom  criticise, 
And  never  write  reviews  !  " 


»  Talfour'd  thus  pictures  him  :— "  Hood,  so  s^rave,  and  sad,  and  silent,  that  you  were  astonished  to  recognise  in 
him  the  outpourer  of  a  thousand  wild  fancies,  the  detector  of  the  inmost  springs  of  pathos,  and  the  powerful  vindi- 
cator of  poverty  and  toil  before  the  hearts  of  the  prosperous." 

■t  The  son  and  daughter  have  preserved  and  printed  some  of  these  ' '  impromptu  "  stories. 


I 


THOMAS  HOOD.  143 


Literature  was,  as  he  expresses  it,  his  "  solace  and  comfort  through  the  extremes 
of  worldly  trouble  and  sickness,"  "  maintaining  him  in  a  cheerfulness,  a  perfect  sun- 
shine, of  the  mind."  Well  might  he  add,  "  My  humble  works  have  flowed  from  my 
heart  as  well  as  my  head,  and,  whatever  their  errors,  are  such  as  I  have  been 
able  to  contemplate  with  composure  when  more  than  once  the  Destroyer  assumed 
almost  a  visible  presence." 

Poor  fellow !  He  was  longing  to  be  away  from  earth  when  I  saw  him  last ; 
struggling  to  set  free  the 

"  Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame  ; " 

lying  on  his  death-bed,  watched  and  tended  by  his  good  and  loving  wife,  who  sur- 
vived him  only  a  few  brief  months  : — 

"  She  for  a  little  tried 
To  live  without  him— liked  it  not— and  died ! "  * 

But  he  lived  long  enough  to  know  that  a  pension  had  been  settled  upon  her  by  Sir 
Kobert  Peel — a  pension  subsequently  continued  to  his  children,  That  comfort, 
that  consolation,  that  blessing,  came  from  his  country  to  his  bed  of  death  ! 

Honoured  be  the  name  of  Sir  Kobert  Peel !  great  statesman  and  good  man  !  It 
is  not  often  that  men  such  as  he  sit  in  highest  places.  Let  Science,  Art,  and  Letters 
consecrate  his  memory!  It  was  he  who  whispered  "peace"  to  Felicia  Hemans, 
dying ;  bidding  her  have  no  care  for  those  she  loved  and  left  on  earth.  It  was  he 
who  enabled  great  Wordsworth  to  woo  Nature  undisturbed  ;  he  who  hghtened  the 
drudgery  of  the  desk  to  the  Quaker  poet,  Bernard  Barton  ;  he  who  upheld  the 
tottering  steps,  and  made  tranquility  take  the  place  of  terror  in  the  overtaxed  brain 
of  Robert  Southey.  From  him  came  the  sunshine  in  the  shady  place  that  was  the 
home  of  James  Montgomery.  It  Avas  his  hand  that  opened  the  sick-room 
shutters,  and  let  in  the  light  of  hope  and  heaven  to  the  death-bed  of  Thomas 
Hood.i- 

Whether  it  be  or  be  not  true  that  Addison  sent  for  his  step-son.  Lord  Warwick, 
to  his  death-bed,  "that  he  might  see  how  a  Christian  could  die,"  certain  it  is  that 
the  anecdote  is  often  quoted  as  an  encouragement  and  an  example.  We  have,  in  the 
instance  of  Thomas  Hood,  such  a  case  occurring  under  our  immediate  view,  closing  a 
life,  not  of  glory  and  triumph,  not  of  prosperity  and  reward,  but  of  long-suffering  in 
body  and  mind,  of  patient  endurance,  of  humble  confidence,  of  sure  and  certain  hope, 
in  the  perfectness  of  holy  faith.  Ay,  he  was  tried  in  the  furnace  of  tribulation  ;  and 
his  battle  of  life  ended  in  according,  while  receiving,  "Peace." 


~  In  one  of  his  letters  to  his  wife  he  thus  writes  :— "  I  never  was  anything,  deai'est,  till  I  knew  you ;  and  I  have 
been  a  better,  happier,  and  more  prosperous  man  ever  since.  Lay  by  tliat  truth  in  lavender,  sweetest,  and  remind 
me  of  it  when  I  fail." 

+  I  refer  in  this  passage  only  to  those  who  are  the  subjects  of  my  "  Memories  ; "  but  to  this  list  may  be  added  the 
names  of  Tytler,  Forbes,  Owen,  Sir  William  Hamilton,  M'CuUoch,  the  widow  and  daughters  of  the  artist  Shee,  the 
Widow  of  the  painter  Haydon,  the  poet-laureate  Tennyson,  the  widow  of  Sir  Charles  Bell,  the  "  destitute  "  daughters 
of  Principal  Eobertson,  the  botanist  Curtis,  the  widow  of  Loudon,  and  probably  others,  of  whom  I  ha^-e  no  knowledge. 
These  were,  or  are,  all  participants  of  that  state  bounty  which  the  oountiy  enables  a  minister  to  dole  out  to  its 
worthies. 


144  MEMORIES. 


1 


These  are  the  last  lines  he  wrote  : — 

"  Farewell,  Life  !  my  senses  swim, 
And  the  world  is  growing  dim  ; 
Thronging  shadows  cloud  the  light, 
Like  the  advent  of  the  night, — 
Colder,  colder,  colder  still, 
Upward  steals  a  vapour  chill ; 
Strong  the  earthly  odour  grows, — ■ 
I  smell  the  mould  above  the  Rose  ! 

"  Welcome,  Life  !  the  spirit  strives. 
Strength  returns  and  hope  revives ; 
Cloudy  fears  and  shapes  forlorn 
Fly  like  shadows  of  the  mom, — 
O'er  the  earth  there  comes  a  bloom, — 
Sunny  light  for  sullen  gloom. 
Warm  perfume  for  vapours  cold, — 
I  smeU  the  Eose  above  the  mould  :  "  '      '  ' 

In  one  of  the  letters  I  received  about  this  time  from  his  true  and  faithful  a.nd 
constant  friend,  F.  0.  Ward,  he  writes  to  me  : — "  He  saw  the  on-coming  of  death  with 
great  cheerfulness,  though  without  anything  approaching  to  levity  ;  and  last  night, 
when  his  friends,  Harvey  and  another,  came,  he  bade  them  come  up,  had  wine 
brought,  and  made  us  all  drink  a  glass  with  him,  '  that  he  might  know  us  for  friends, 
as  of  old,  and  not  undertakers.'  He  conversed  for  about  an  hour  in  his  old  playful 
way,  with  now  and  then  a  word  or  two  full  of  deep  and  tender  feeling.  When  I  left 
he  bade  me  good-bye,  and  kissed  me,  shedding  tears,  and  saying  that  perhaps  we 
never  should  meet  again." 

I  have  his  own  copy  of  the  last  letter  he  ever  wrote  :  it  is  to  Sir  Robert 
Peel  :— 

"  Dear  Sir, — We  are  not  to  meet  in  the  flesh.  Given  over  by  physicians  and  by  myself,  in 
this  extremity  I  feel  a  comfort  for  which  I  cannot  refrain  from  again  thanking  you  with  all  the 
sincerity  of  a  dying  man,  at  the  same  time  bidding  you  a  respectful  farewell. 

"  Thank  God,  my  mind  is  composed,  and  my  reason  undisturbed ;  but  my  race  as  an  author  is 
run.  Mj'  physical  debility  finds  no  tonic  virtue  in  a  steel  pen,  otherwise  I  would  have  written  one 
more  paper — a  forewarning  against  an  evil,  or  the  danger  of  it,  arising  from  a  literary  movement 
in  which  I  have  had  some  share ;  a  one-sided  humanity,  opposite  to  that  catholic,  Shakspearian 
sympathy  which  felt  with  king  as  well  as  peasant,  duly  estimating  the  moral  temptations  of  both 
stations.  Certain  classes  at  the  poles  of  society  are  already  too  far  asunder.  It  should  be  the  duty 
of  our  writers  to  draw  them  together  by  kindly  attraction— not  to  aggravate  the  existing  repulsion, 
and  place  a  wider  moral  gulf  between  rich  and  poor — hate  on  the  one  side,  and  fear  on  the  other. 
But  I  am  too  weak  for  this  task — the  last  I  had  set  myself.  It  is  death  that  stops  my  pen,  you 
see,  and  not  my  pension.  God  bless  you,  sir,  and  prosper  all  your  measures  for  the  benefit  of  my 
beloved  country ! " 

Almost  his  latest  act  was  to  obtain  some  proofs  of  his  portrait,  recently  engraved, 
and  to  send  one  to  each  of  his  most  esteemed  friends,  marked  by  some  line  of  affec- 
tionate reminiscence.  The  one  he  sent  to  us  I  have  engraved  at  the  head  of  this 
memory. 

His  daughter  writes  me  thus  of  his  last  hour  on  earth: — "  Those  who  lectured 
him  on  his  merry  sallies  and  innocent  gaiety  should  have  been  present  at  his  death- 
bed, to  see  how  the  gentlest  and  most  loving  heart  in  the  world  could  die  ! "  "  Think- 
ing himself  dying,  he  called  us  round  him — my  mother,  my  little  brother,  and  myself 
— to  receive  his  last  kiss  and  blessing,  tenderly  and  fondly  given ;  and  gently  clasp- 
ing my  mother's  hand,  he  said,  '  Remember,  Jane,  I  forgive  all — alll '  He  lay  for 
some  time  calmly  and  quietly,  but  breathing  painfully  and  slowly ;  and  my  mother, 


■ 


THOMAS  HOOD. 


145 


bending  over  him,  heard  him  murmur  faintly, '  0  Lord,  say,  Arise,  take  up  thy  cross, 
and  follow  Me  !  '" 

He  died  at  Devonshire  Lodge,  in  the  New  Finchley  Eoad.  Of  that  house  we 
procured  a  drawing,  and  have  engraved  it. 

He  left  one  son  and  one  daughter. 

Genius  is  not  often  hereditary.  There  are  but  few  immortal  names,  the  glory  of 
which  has  been  "  continued,"     It  is  gratifying  to  know  that  the  seed  planted  by 


THE   TOMB    OF   TH03IAS   HOOD. 


Thomas  Hood  and  his  estimable  wife  has  borne  fruit  in  due  season.     The  dau.hte 
(Fanny)  wedded  a  good  clergyman  in  Somersetshire,  and,  though  now  a  widow   .s 
the  happy  mother  of  children  (one  of  whom,  by  the  way,  is  our  god-daughter)  .  sbe 
is  the  auLor  of  many  valuable  works,  the  greater  number  of  them  bemg  spe        y 
designed  for  the  young.     The  name  of  "  Fanny  Broderip ''  is  honoured  m  1  tteis 
To  the  son-another  "  Tom  "-it  is  needless  to  refer.     He  has  added  ^^-^^l^J^i 
venerated  name  he  bears,  and  has  written  much  that  his  great  fether  ^  -  elf  im^^^ 
have  owned  with  pride.  _  They  have  had  a  sacred  trust  committed  to  them,  and 
far  have  nobly  redeemed  it. 


146  MEMORIES. 


1 


Alas  !  since  this  Memory  was  first  published,  the  son,  "Tom  Hood  the  younger," 
has  also  been  called  from  earth,  dying  in  the  prime  of  life. 

Tom  much  resembled  the  father  in  mind  :  he  was  gently  genial — if  the  term 
may  pass.  His  wit  also  was  calm,  not  loud  :  it  was  not  of  the  character  that  can 
set  the  table  in  a  roar.  He  had,  I  believe,  a  stern  struggle  with  life — a  wrestle, 
indeed,  in  which  he  was  worsted.  I  knew  but  little  of  him  towards  the  close  of  his 
somewhat  brief  career  :  he  seemed  absorbed  by  requisite  labour  to  satisfy  present 
and,  it  may  be,  pressing,  needs,  and  did  not  give  himself  the  fair  play  that  might  have 
led  to  a  far  higher  position  than  he  was  destined  to  occupy.  Tom  had  one  advantage 
which  his  father  had  not  :  his  personal  appearance  was  much  in  his  favour.  He  was 
handsome :  the  outline  of  his  face  was  singularly  fine  ;  the  features  were  regular, 
and  the  expression  indicated  the  kindly  nature  of  the  man  ;  while  his  form  was  tall, 
straight,  and  not  without  natural  grace. 

In  this  Memory  of  Thomas  Hood  I  have  printed  his  last  letter,  and  quoted  his 
latest  words.  They  are  such  as  must,  in  the  estimation  of  all  readers,  raise  him  even 
higher  than  he  yet  stands.  The  world  owes  him  much;  Humanity  is  his  debtor; 
and  who  will  not  exclaim,  borrowing  from  another  poet — 

"  The  thoughts  of  gratitude  shall  fall  like  dew 
Upon  thy  grave,  good  creature  2" 


I 


THEODOEE  HOOK. 

HEODORE  EDWABD  HOOK  Avas  born  in  Charlotte  Street, 
Bedford  Square,  on  the  22nd  September,  1788.  His  father 
was  a  musical  composer,  who  "  enjoyed  in  his  time  success 
and  celebrity."  His  elder  brother,  James,  was  Dean  of  Wor- 
cester, whose  son  was  the  late  learned  and  eloquent  Dean  of 
Chichester.  The  mother  was  an  accomplished  lady,  and  also 
an  author. 

The  natural  talent  of  Theodore  was,  therefore,  early  nursed : 
unfortunately,  the  Green  Room  was  the  too  frequent  "  study"  of 
the  youth,  for  his  father's  fame  and  income  were  chiefly  derived  from  the  composition 
of  operetta  songs,  for  which  Theodore  usually  wrote  the  libretto.  When  little  more 
than  a  boy  he  had  produced,  perhaps,  thirty  farces,  and  in  1808  gave  birth  to  a  novel. 
Those  who  remember  the  two  great  actors  of  a  long  period,  Mathews  and  Liston, 
will  be  at  no  loss  to  comprehend  the  popularity  of  Hook's  farces,  for  these  eminent 
men  were  his  "  props." 

In  1812,  when  his  finances  were  low,  and  the  chances  of  increasing  them  limited, 
and  when,  perhaps,  also  his  constitution  had  been  tried  by  "  excesses,"  he  received 

L   2 


the  appointment  of  Accountant-General  and  Treasurer  at  the  Mauritius — a  post  with 
an  income  of  £^,000  a  year.  Hook  seems  to  have  derived  his  quahfication  for  that 
office  from  his  antipathy  to  arithmetic,  and  his  utter  unfitness  for  business.  The 
result  might  have  been  easily  foreseen  :  in  1819  he  returned  to  England,  the  cause 
being  indicated  by  his  famous  pun.  When  the  Governor  of  the  Cape  expressed  to 
him  a  hope  that  he  M^as  not  returning  because  of  ill-health,  Hook  "  regretted  "  to  say 
"  they  think  there  is  something  wrong  in  the  eheat."  He  was  found  guilty  of  owing 
d612,000  to  the  Government,  yet  he  was  "without  a  shilling  in  his  pocket."  If 
public  funds  had  been  abstracted,  he  was  none  the  richer,  and  there  was  certainly 
no  suspicion  that  the  money  had  been  dishonestly  advantageous  to  him.  Although 
kept  for  years  in  hot  water,  battling  with  the  Treasury,  it  was  not  until  1823  that 
the  penalty  was  exacted — some  time  after  the  John  Bull  had  made  him  a  host  of 
enemies.  Of  course,  as  he  could  not  pay  in  purse,  he  was  doomed  to  "  pay  in 
person."  After  spending  some  months  "  pleasantly  "  at  a  dreary  sponging-house  in 
Shoe  Lane,  where  there  was  ever  "  an  agreeable  prospect,  barring  the  vpindows,"  he 
was  removed  to  the  Rules  of  the  Bench,  residing  there  a  year,  being  "  discharged 
from  custody  "  in  1825.  While  in  the  "  Rules  "  he  was  under  very  little  restraint, 
being  almost  as  much  in  society  as  ever,  taking  special  care  not  to  be  seen  by  any  of 
his  creditors,  who  might  have  "  pounced  "  upon  him,  and  made  the  marshal  respon- 
sible for  the  debt.  The  danger  was  less  in  Hook's  case  than  in  that  of  others,  for 
his  principal  "  detaining  creditor"  was  the  King. 

I  remember  his  telling  me  that  during  his  "  confinement  "  in  the  "  Rules,"  he 
made  the  acquaintance  of  a  gentleman  who,  while  a  prisoner  there,  jDaid  a  visit  to 
India.  The  story  is  this — the  gentleman  called  one  morning  on  the  marshal,  who 
said,  "  Mr.  So-and-so,  I  have  not  had  the  pleasure  to  see  you  for  a  long  time.  "  No 
wonder,"  was  the  answer,  "  for  since  you  saw  me  last  I  have  been  to  India."  In 
reply  to  a  look  of  astonished  inquiry  he  explained,  "  I  knew  my  affairs  there  were  so 
intricate  and  involved,  that  no  one  but  myself  could  unravel  them,  so  I  ran  the  risk 
and  took  my  chance.  I  am  back  with  ample  funds  to  pay  all  my  debts,  and  to  live 
comfortably  for  the  rest  of  my  days."  Mr.  Hook  did  not  say  if  the  gentleman  had 
obtained  from  his  securities  a  license  for  what  he  had  done  ;  but  the  anecdote  illus- 
trates the  extreme  laxity  enjoyed  by  prisoners  in  "  the  Rules,"  which  extended  to 
several  streets,  as  compared  with  the  doleful  incarceration  to  which  poor  debtors 
were  subjected,  who,  in  those  days,  often  had  their  miserable  homes  in  a  gaol  for 
debts  that  might  have  been  paid  by  shillings. 

He  then  took  up  his  residence  at  Putnej^,  from  which  he  removed  to  a  "  mansion  " 
in  Cleveland  Row,  but  subsequently  to  Fulham,  where  the  remainder  of  his  life  was 
passed,  and  where  he  died.  The  house  at  Fulham  was  a  small  detached  cottage.  It 
is  of  this  cottage  that  Lockhart  says,  "We  doubt  if  its  interior  was  ever  seen  by 
half-a-dozen  people  besides  the  old  confidential  worshippers  of  Bull's  Mouth."  It 
was  "  removed  "  by  the  railroad. 

Hook  resided  here  in  comparative  obscurity.  It  gave  him  a  pleasant  prospect  of 
Putney  Bridge,  and  of  Putney  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river.  As  the  Thames 
flowed  past  the  bottom  of  his  small  and  narrow  garden,  he  had  a  perpetually  cheerful 


THEODORE 

HOOK. 

149 

and  changing  view  of  the  many  gay  passers- 

by  in 

3oats, 

and  yachts,  and  steamboats. 

The  only  room  of  the  cottage  I  ever  saw 

, 

was  somewhat  coarsely  furnished  :  a  few 

\ 

prints  hung  on  the  walls,  but  there  was  no 

\\ 

evidence  of  those   suggestive   refinements 

V 

\ 

which    substitute    intellectual    for   animal 

v^,^     f  • 

gratifications  in  the  internal  arrangements 

\ 

Ud 

^ 
$ 

of  a  domicile  that    becomes  necessarily  a 

.r 

V 

workshop. 

\ 

vf 

J 

Hook's   love  of  practical  joking  seems 

K 

\ 

^ 

A 

to  have  commenced  early.    Almost  of  that 

N 

i 

\ 

character  was  his  well-known  answer  to 

1 

^ 

^ 

P 

the  Vice-Chancellor  at  Oxford,  when  asked 

^V 

\ 

whether  he  was   prepared  to  subscribe  to 

^ 

\ 

\ 

J 

the  Thirty-nine  Articles — "  Oh,  certainly, 

i 

\1 

\ 

• 

T 

to  forty  of  them  if  you  please;  "  and  his 

^\ 

)v 

V 

J 

once  meeting  the  proctor  dressed  in  his 

J 

\ 

^ 

^         ^ 

^ 

robes,  who,  having  questioned  him,  "  Pray, 

^ 

K 

p 

\       N 

V\ 

sir,  are  you  a  member  of  this  University  ?  " 

V^ 

■^ 

•1 

received    a   reply,     "No,    sir ;    pray   are 

J 

\ 

you  ?  " 

\J 

■i 

^j 

^      ^ 

In  the  Memoirs  of  Charles   Mathews, 

\ 

^ 

by   his    widow,    abundant    anecdotes    are 

■^ 

\ 

\  vv 

recorded  of  these  practical  jokes  ;  but  in 

\ 

r  \ 

\     \^ 

fact,   "  Gilbert    Gurney,"   which    may  be 

n 

> 

J 

regarded  as  an   autobiography,  is    full  of 

4 

^ 

V\ 

■M 

them.     Mr.  Barham,  his  biographer,  also 

\\ 

0 

\\ 

•\ 

relates    several,   and  states    that  when  a 

J 

"Vj 

young   man  he  had    a   "museum"    con- 

^ 

r 

'^ 

taining  a   large    and  varied    collection   of 

^ 

V 

<i 

knockers,    sign-paintings,    barbers'    poles. 

\ 

\ 

and  cocked  hats,  gathered  together  during 

A 

Y 

his  "  predatory  adventures  ;  "  but  its  most 

X 

\ 

\ 

i^ 

attractive   object   was   "a  gigantic   High- 

H 

lander,"   looted  from  the   shop-door  of  a 

^s 

V 

^ 

tobacconist  on  a  dark,  foggy  night.    These 

\f 

^ 

:\  V 

n3 

"  enterprises  of  great  pith  and  moment  " 

\ 

\ 

are  detailed  by  himself  in  full.     The  most 

\ 

V\ 

"  glorious  "  of  them  has  been   often  told 

K 

^ 

'^^ 

— how   he    sent   through    the    post   some 

-^ 

^ 

"four   thousand"    letters,    inviting    on  a 

\ 

given  day    a  huge  assemblage  of  visitors 

\ 

to  the  house   of  a  lady  of  fortune,  living 

at  54 

,  Berners  Street,  beginning  with  a 

dozen  sweeps  at  daybreak — including  lawy 

ers,  doctors, 

upholsterers,  jewellers,  coal- 

ISO  MEMORIES. 


mercliants,  linen-drapers,  artists,  even  the  Lord  Mayor,  for  whose  behoof  a  special 
temptation  was  invented.  In  a  word,  there  was  no  conceivable  trade,  profession, 
or  calling  that  was  not  summoned  to  augment  the  crowd  of  foot  passengers  and 
carriages  by  which  the  street  was  thronged  from  dawn  till  midnight,  while  Hook 
and  a  friend  enjoyed  the  confusion  from  a  room  opposite.*  Lockhart,  in  the 
Quarterly,  states  that  the  hoax  was  merely  the  result  of  a  wager  that  Hook  would 
in  one  week  make  the  quiet  dwelling  the  most  famous  house  in  all  London.  Mr. 
Barham  affirms  that  the  lady,  Mrs.  Tottenham,  had,  in  some  way  or  other,  fallen 
under  the  displeasure  of  "  the  formidable  trio  " — Mr.  Hook  and  two  unnamed 
friends. 

His  conversation  was  an  unceasing  stream  of  wit,  of  which  he  was  profuse,  as  if 
he  knew  the  source  to  be  inexhaustible.  He  never  kept  it  for  display,  or  for 
company,  or  for  those  who  knew  its  value — wit  was,  indeed,  as  natural  to  him  as 
common-place  to  common-place  characters.  It  was  not  only  in  puns,  in  repartees, 
in  lively  retorts,  in  sparkling  sentences,  in  brilliant  illustrations,  or  in  apt  or  exciting 
anecdote,  this  faculty  was  developed.  I  have  known  him  string  together  a  number 
of  graceful  verses — every  one  of  which  was  fine  in  composition  and  admirable  in  point 
— at  a  moment's  notice,  on  a  subject  the  most  inauspicious,  and  apparently  impos- 
sible either  to  wit  or  rhyme,  yet  with  an  effect  that  delighted  a  party,  and  might 
have  borne  the  test  of  criticism  the  most  severe.  These  verses  he  usually  sung  in  a 
sort  of  recitative  to  some  tune  with  which  all  were  familiar  ;  and  if  a  piano  were  at 
hand,  he  accompanied  himself  with  a  gentle  strain  of  music. 

Mrs.  Mathews  relates  that  she  was  present  once  when  Hook  dined  with  the 
Drury  Lane  company,  at  a  dinner  given  to  Sheridan  in  honour  of  his  return  for 
Westminster.  The  guests  were  numerous,  yet  he  made  a  verse  upon  every  person 
in  the  room:  "  every  action  was  turned  to  account;  every  circumstance,  the  look, 
the  gesture,  or  any  other  accidental  effects,  served  as  occasion  for  wit."  Sheridan 
was  astonished  at  his  extraordinary  faculty,  and  declared  that  he  could  not  have 
imagined  such  power  possible  had  he  not  witnessed  it. 

People  used  to  give  him  subjects  the  most  unpromising,  to  test  his  powers. 
Thus  Campbell  records  that  he  once  supplied  him  with  a  theme,  "  Pepper  and  Salt," 
and  that  he  amply  seasoned  the  song  with  both.f 

I  was  present  when  this  rare  faculty  was  put  to  even  a  more  severe  test  at  a  party 
at  Mr.  Jerdan's,  at  Grove  House,  Brompton — a  house  long  since  removed  to  make 
room  for  Ovington  Square.  It  was  a  large  supper  party,  and  many  men  and  women 
of  mark  were  present ;  for  the  Literary  Gazette  was  then  in  the  zenith  of  its  power, 
worshipped  by  all  aspirants  for  fame,  and  courted  even  by  those  whose  laurels  had 
been  won  ;  while  its  editor,  be  his  shortcomings  what  they  may,  was  then,  as  he  ever 
was,  ready  with  a  helping  hand  to  those  who  needed  help — a  lenient  critic,  a 
generous  sympathiser,  who  preferred  pushing  a  dozen  forward  to  thrusting  one  back. 

*  In  "  Gilbert  Gurney  "  Hook  makes  Daly  say—"  I  am  the  man  ;  I  did  it ;  for  originality  of  thought  and  design , 
I  do  think  that  was  perfect." 

+  Campbell  thus  -writes  of  Hook  in  1812  :— "  Yesterday  an  impro\'isatore— a  wonderful  creatiu'e  of  the  name  of 
Hook—  sang  some  extempore  songs,  not  to  my  admiration,  but  to  my  astonishment.  I  prescribed  a  subject,  '  Pepper 
and  Salt,'  and  he  seasoned  the  impromptu  with  both— very  truly  Attic  salt." 


« 


THEODORE  HOOK.  151 


Hook,  having  been  asked  for  his  song,  and,  as  usual,  demanding  a  theme,  one  of 
the  guests,  either  facetious  or  maUcious,  called  out,  "  Take  Yates's  big  nose  "  (Yates, 
the  actor,  was  of  the  party).  To  any  one  else  such  a  subject  would  have  been 
appalling.  Not  so  to  Hook ;  he  rose,  glanced  once  or  twice  round  the  table,  and 
chanted  (so  to  speak)  a  series  of  verses  perfect  in  rhythm  and  rhyme,  the  incapable 
theme  being  dealt  with  in  a  marvellous  spirit  of  fun,  humour,  serious  comment,  and 
absolute  philosophy,  utterly  inconceivable  to  those  who  had  never  heard  the  marvel- 
lous improvisatore ;  each  verse  describing  something  which  the  world  considered 
great,  but  which  became  small  when  placed  in  comparison  with 

"  Yates's  big  nose  !  " 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  met  Hook,  and  my  astonishment  was  unbounded.  I 
found  it  impossible  to  believe  the  song  Avas  improvised  ;  but  I  had  afterwards  ample 
reason  to  know  that  so  thorough  a  triumph  over  difficulties  was  with  him  by  no 
means  rare. 

I  had  once  a  glorious  day  with  him  on  the  Thames,  fishing  in  a  punt  on  the  river, 
opposite  the  Swan,  at  Thames  Ditton.  Hook  was  in  good  health  and  good  spirits, 
and  brimful  of  mirth.  He  loved  the  angler's  craft,  though  he  seldom  enjoyed  it ;  he 
spoke  with  something  like  affection  of  a  long  ago  time,  when  bobbing  for  roach  at  the 
foot  of  Fulham  Bridge,  the  fisherman  perpetually  raising  or  lowering  his  float,  accord- 
ing to  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  tide. 

Yes,  it  was  a  glorious  day  !  A  record  of  his  "sayings  and  doings,"  from  early 
morn  to  set  of  sun,  would  fill  a  goodly  volume.  It  was  a  fine  summer  day.  Fishing 
on  the  Thames  is  lazy  fishing  ;  the  gudgeons  bite  freely,  but  there  is  little  labour  in 
"landing"  them:  it  is  the  perfection  of  the  dolcefar  niente,  giving  leisure  for  talk, 
and  frequent  desire  for  refreshment.  In  a  punt,  at  all  events,  though  not  by  the 
river  side,  idle  time  is  idly  spent ;  but  the  wit  and  fun  of  Mr.  Hook  that  day  might 
have  delighted  a  hundred  by-sitters,  and  it  was  a  grief  to  me  tbat  I  was  the  only 
listener — Hook  and  I — to  borrow  a  pun  that  is  said  to  have  been  made  by  another 
upon  another  occasion.  Hook  then  conceived — probably  then  made — the  verses  he 
afterwards  gave  me  for  the  Neiv  Monthly,  entitled  "  The  Swan  at  Ditton." 

The  last  time  I  saw  Hook  was  at  Priors  Bank,  Fulham,  where  his  neighbours, 
Mr.  Bay  lis  and  Mr.  Whitmore,  had  given  an  "  entertainment,"  the  leading  feature 
being  an  amateur  play,  for  which,  by  the  way,  I  wrote  the  prologue.  Hook  was  then 
in  his  decadence,  in  broken  health,  his  animal  spirits  gone,  the  cup  of  life  drained 
to  the  dregs.  It  was  morning  before  the  guests  departed,  yet  Hook  remained  to  the 
last,  and  a  light  of  other  days  brightened  his  features  as  he  opened  the  piano  and 
began  a  recitative.  The  theme  was,  of  course,  the  occasion  that  had  brought  the 
party  together  ;  and  perhaps  he  never,  in  his  best  time,  was  more  original,  powerful, 
and  pointed.     I  can  recall  two  of  the  lines — 

"  They  may  boast  of  their  Fulham  omnibus, 
But  this  is  the  Fulham  stage." 

There  was  a  fair  young  boy  standing  by  his  side  while  he  was  singing  :  one  of 
the  servants  suddenly  opened  the  drawing-room  shutters,  and  a  flood  of  Hght  fell  upon 


MEMORIES. 


the  lad's  head.  The  effect  was  very  touching,  but  it  became  a  thousand  times  more 
so  as  Hook,  availing  himself  of  the  incident,  placed  his  hand  upon  the  youth's 
brow,  and  in  tremulous  tones  uttered  a  verse  of  which  I  remember  only  the  con- 
cluding lines — 

'  For  you  is  the  dawn  of  the  morning', 


For  me  is  the  solemn  good-night." 

He  rose  from  the  piano,  burst  into  tears,  and  left  the  room, 
present  saw  him  afterwards.* 


Few  of  those  who  were 


THE  BKSIDENCB    OF  THEODOEE   HOOK. 


All  the  evening  Hook  had  been  low  in  spirits  ;  it  seemed  impossible  to  stir  him 
into  animation  until  the  cause  was  guessed  at  by  Mr.  Blood,  a  surgeon,  who,  under 
the  name  of  Davis,  was  at  that  time  an  actor  at  the  Haymarket.  He  prescribed  a 
glass  of  sherry,  and  retired  to  procure  it,  returning  presently  with  a  bottle  of  pale 
brandy.  Having  administered  two  or  three  doses,  the  machinery  was  wound  up,  and 
the  result  was  as  I  have  described  it. 

I  give  one  more  instance  of  his  ready  wit  and  rapid  power  of  rhyme.  He  had 
been  idle  for  a  fortnight,  and  had  written  nothing  for  the  John  Bull ;  the  clerk, 
however,  took  him  his  salary  as  usual,  and  on  entering  his  room  said,  "  Have  you 

*  Mr.  Barham  has  a  confused  account  of  this  incident.  He  was  not  present  on  the  occasion,  as  I  was— standing 
close  by  tJie  piano  when  it  occurred. 


THEODORE   HOOK.  153 


heard  the  news? — the  King  and  Queen  of  the  Sandwich  Islands  are  dead"  (they 
had  just  died  in  England  of  the  small-pox)  ;  "and,"  added  the  clerk,  "we  want 
something  about  them."     "  You  shall  have  it,"  said  Hook  ;  "  it's  done  ! 

'  Waiter,  two  sandwiches ! '  cried  Death ; 
And  their  wild  majesties  resigned  their  breath.' '" 

I  remember  once  breakfasting  with  him,  mulled  claret  being  on  the  table,  in  jugs 
that  were  unmistakably  sacramental,  and  his  telling  me  that  when  Mrs.  Wilson 
Croker  was  shocked  at  so  great  an  outrage  on  propriety,  he  succeeded  in  persuading 
her  they  were  not  what  she  supposed,  the  cherubim  being  neither  more  nor  less 
than  little  models  of  Bacchus. 

The  Jolin  Ball  was  established  at  the  close  of  the  year  1820,  and  it  is  said  that 
Sir  Walter  Scott  having  been  consulted  by  some  leader  among  "  high  Tories," 
suggested  Hook  as  the  person  precisely  suited  for  the  required  task.  The  avowed 
purpose  of  the  publication  was  to  extinguish  the  party  of  the  Queen  Caroline,  wife 
of  George  IV.,  and  in  a  reckless  and  frightful  spirit  the  work  was  done.  She  died, 
however,  in  1821,  and  persecution  was  arrested  at  her  grave.  Its  projectors  and 
proprietors  had  calculated  on  a  weekly  sale  of  seven  hundred  and  fifty  copies,  and 
prepared  accordingly.  By  the  sixth  week  it  had  reached  a  sale  of  ten  thousand, 
and  became  a  valuable  property  to  "  all  concerned."  Of  course  there  were  many 
prosecutions  for  libels — damages  and  costs,  and  incarceration  for  breaches  of 
privilege  ;  but  all  search  for  actual  delinquents  was  vain.  Suspicions  were  rife 
enough,  but  positive  proofs  there  were  none.  Hook  was,  of  course,  in  no  way 
implicated  in  so  scandalous  and  slanderous  a  publication.  On  one  occasion  there 
appeared  among  the  answers  to  correspondents  a  paragragh  purporting  to  be  a  reply 
to  a  letter  from  Mr.  Hook,  "disavowing  all  connection  with  the  paper."  The  gist 
of  the  paragraph  was  this  : — "  Two  things  surprise  us  in  this  business  :  the  first, 
that  anything  we  have  thought  worthy  of  giving  to  the  public  should  have  been 
mistaken  for  Mr.  Hook's  ;  and  secondly,  that  such  a  iierson  as  My.  Hook  should 
think  himself  disgraced  by  a  connection  with  John  Bull.'" 

Even  now,  at  this  distance  of  time,  few  of  the  contributors  are  actually  known. 
Among  them  were  undoubtedly  John  Wilson  Croker,  and  avowedly  Haynes  Bayly, 
Barham,  and  Dr.  Maginn. 

In  1836,  when  I  had  resigned  the  New  Monthly  into  the  hands  of  Mr.  Hook, 
he  proposed  to  me  to  take  the  sub-editorship  and  general  literary  management  of  the 
John  Bull.  That  post  I  undertook,  retaining  it  for  a  year.  Our  "  business  "  was 
carried  on,  not  at  the  John  Bull  ofiice,  but  at  "  Easty's  Hotel,"  in  Southampton 
Street,  Strand,  in  two  rooms  on  the  first  floor  of  that  tavern.  Mr.  Hook  was  never 
seen  at  the  office— his  existence,  indeed,  was  not  recognised  there  :  if  any  one  had 
asked  for  him  there  by  name,  the  answer  would  have  been  that  no  such  person  was 
known.  Although,  at  the  period  of  which  I  write,  there  was  no  danger  to  be  appre- 
hended from  his  walking  in  and  out  of  the  small  office  in  Fleet  Street,  a  time  had 
been  when  it  could  not  have  been  done  without  personal  peril.  Editorial  work  was 
therefore    conducted    with   much   secrecy,    a    confidential    person   communicating 


1 54  MEMORIES. 


1 


between  the  editor  and  the  printer,  who  never  knew,  or  rather,  was  assumed  not 
to  know,  by  whom  the  articles  were  written.  In  1836 — some  years  before,  and 
during  the  years  afterwards — no  paragraph  was  inserted  that  in  the  remotest  degree 
assailed  private  character  :  political  hatreds  and  personal  hostilities  had  grown  less 
in  vogue  ;  and  Hook  had  lived  long  enough  to  be  tired  of  assailing  those  whom  he 
rather  liked  and  respected.  The  bitterness  of  his  nature  (if  it  ever  existed,  which 
I  much  doubt)  had  worn  out  with  years  ;  but,  undoubtedly,  much  of  the  briUiant 
wit  of  the  John  Bull  had  evaporated ;  in  losing  its  distinctive  feature,  it  had  lost  its 
power,  and,  as  a  "  property,"  it  dwindled  to  comparative  insignificance. 

Mr.  Hook  derived  but  a  small  income  from  his  editorship  during  the  later  years 
of  his  life.  I  will  believe  that  more  honourable  motives  than  those  by  which  he 
had  been  guided  during  the  fierce  and  turbulent  party  times  when  the  John  Bull 
was  estabhshed  had  led  him  to  relinquish  scandal,  slander,  and  vituperation  as 
dishonourable  weapons  ;  but  I  know  that  in  my  time  he  did  not  use  them.  His 
advice  to  me,  on  more  than  one  occasion,  was,  to  remember  that  "  abuse  "  seldom 
eff"ectually  answered  a  purpose  ;  and  that  it  was  wiser,  as  well  as  safer,  to  act  on 
the  principle  that  "  praise  undeserved  is  satire  in  disguise."  All  that  was  evil  in  the 
John  Bull  had  been  absorbed  by  two  infamous  weekly  newspapers,  the  Age  and  the 
Satirist :  they  were  prosperous  and  profitable.  Happily,  no  such  newspapers  now 
exist ;  the  public  not  only  would  not  buy,  they  would  not  tolerate,  the  personalities, 
the  indecencies,  the  gross  outrages  on  public  men,  the  scandalous  assaults  on 
private  character,  that  made  these  publications  "  good  speculations"  at  the  period  of 
which  I  write,  and  undoubtedly  disgraced  the  John  Bull  during  its  earlier  career. 

No  wonder,  therefore,  that  no  such  person  as  Mr.  Theodore  Hook  was  connected 
with  the  John  Bull.  He  invariably  denied  all  such  connection,  and  perseveringly 
protested  against  the  charge  that  he  had  ever  written  a  line  in  it.  I  have  heard  it 
said  that  during  the  troublous  period  of  the  Queen's  trial,  Sir  Eobert  Wilson 
met  Hook  in  the  street,  and  said,  in  a  sort  of  confidential  whisper,  "  Hook,  I  am  to 
be  traduced  and  slandered  in  the  John  Bull  next  Sunday."  Hook,  of  course, 
expressed  astonishment  and  abhorrence.  "  Yes,"  continued  Wilson,  "  and  if  I  am, 
I  mean  to  horsewhip  you  the  first  time  you  come  in  my  way.  Now  stop  ;  I  know 
you  have  nothing  to  do  with  that  newspaper  ;  you  have  told  me  so  a  score  of  times  ; 
nevertheless,  if  the  article,  which  is  purely  of  a  private  nattire — if  that  article  appears, 
let  the  consequences  be  what  they  may,  I  Avill  horsewhip  you  !  "  The  article  never 
did  appear.     I  can  give  no  authority  for  this  anecdote,  but  I  do  not  doubt  its  truth. 

I  have  another  story  to  tell  of  these  editorial  times.  One  day  a  gentleman 
entered  the  John  Bull  office,  evidently  in  a  state  of  extreme  exasperation,  armed 
with  a  stout  cudgel.  His  application  to  see  the  editor  was  answered  by  a  request  to 
walk  up  to  the  second-floor  front  room.  The  room  was  empty,  but  presently  there 
entered  to  him  a  huge,  tall,  broad-shouldered  fellow,  who  in  unmitigated  brogue 
asked,  "  What  do  you  plase  to  want,  sur  ?  "  "  Want !  "  said  the  gentleman,  "  I 
want  the  editor."  "I'm  the  idditur,  sur,  at  your  sarvice  ;  "  upon  which  the  gentle- 
man, seeing  that  no  good  could  arise  from  encounter  with  such  an  "  editor,"  made 
his  way  down-stairs  and  out  of  the  house  without  a  word. 


i 


THEODORE   HOOK.  15: 


In  1836  Mr.  Hook  succeeded  me  in  the  editorship  of  the  iVe/r  Monthly  Magazine. 
The  change  arose  thus  :  when  Mr.  Colburn  and  Mr.  Bentley  had  dissolved  partner- 
ship, and  each  had  his  own  establishment,  much  jealousy,  approaching  hostility, 
existed  between  them.  Mr.  Bentley  had  announced  a  comic  miscellany,  or  rather,  a 
magazine,  of  which  humour  was  to  be  the  leading  feature.  Mr.  Colburn  immediately 
conceived  the  idea  of  a  rival  in  that  line,  and  apphed  to  Hook  to  be  its  editor. 
Hook  readily  complied,  the  terms  of  £400  per  annum  having  been  settled :  as  usual, 
he  required  payment  in  advance,  and  "then  and  there  "  received  bills  for  his  first 
year's  salary.  Not  long  afterwards  Mr.  Colburn  saw  the  impolicy  of  his  scheme  ; 
I  had  strongly  reasoned  against  it,  representing  to  him  that  the  New  Monthly  would 
lose  its  most  valuable  contributor,  Mr.  Hook,  and  other  useful  allies  with  him  ;  that 
the  ruin  of  the  New  Monthly  must  be  looked  upon  as  certain  ;  while  the  success  of 
his  Joker's  Magazine  was  problematical  at  best.  Such  arguments  prevailed :  he 
called  upon  Mr.  Hook  with  a  view  to  relinquish  the  design.  Mr.  Hook  was  exactly 
of  Mr.  Colburn's  new  opinion.  He  had  received  the  money,  and  was  not  disposed, 
even  if  he  had  been  able,  to  give  it  back  ;  but  suggested  his  becoming  editor  of  the 
New  Monthly,  and  in  that  way  "working  it  out."  The  project  met  the  views  of 
Mr.  Colburn,  and  so  it  was  arranged. 

But  when  the  plan  was  communicated  to  me,  I  declined  to  be  placed  in  the 
position  of  sub-editor.  I  knew  that  however  valuable  Mr.  Hook  might  be  as  a 
large  contributor,  he  was  utterly  unfitted  to  discharge  editorial  duties  ;  and  that,  as 
sub-editor,  I  could  have  no  power  to  do  aught  but  obey  the  orders  of  my  superior ; 
while,  as  co-editor,  I  could  both  suggest  and  object,  as  regarded  articles  and 
contributors.  This  was  also  the  view  of  Mr.  Colburn,  but  not  that  of  Mr.  Hook  : 
the  consequence  was  that  I  retired.  As  to  the  conduct  of  the  New  Monthly  in  the 
hands  of  Mr.  Hook,  until  it  came  into  those  of  Mr.  Hood,  and  not  long  afterwards 
was  sold  by  Mr.  Colburn  to  Mr.  Harrison  Ainsworth,  it  is  not  requisite  to  speak. 

A  word  here  of  Mr.  Colburn.  I  cherish  the  kindliest  memory  of  that  eminent 
bibliopole.  He  has  been  charged  with  many  mean  acts  as  regards  authors  ;  but  I 
know  that  he  was  often  liberal  and  always  considerate  towards  them  :  he  could  be 
implacable,  but  also  forgiving,  and  it  was  ever  easy  to  move  his  heart  by  a  tale  of 
sorrow  or  a  case  of  distress.  For  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  he  "  led  "  the 
general  literature  of  the  kingdom,  and  I  believe  his  sins  of  omission  and  commission 
were  very  few.  Such  is  my  impression,  resulting  from  six  years'  continual  inter- 
course with  him. 

He  was  a  little  man,,  of  mild  and  kindly  countenance,  and  of  much  bodily 
activity.  His  peculiarity  was  that  he  rarely  or  never  finished  a  sentence,  appearing 
as  if  he  considered  it  hazardous  to  express  fully  what  he  thought;  consequently,  one 
could  seldom  understand  what  was  his  real  opinion  upon  any  subject  he  "  debated 
or  discussed."  His  debate  was  always  a  "  possibly  "  or  a  "  perhaps  ;  "  his  discus- 
sion invariably  led  to  no  conclusion  for  or  against  the  matter  in  hand.* 

It  was  during  my  editorship   of  the  New  Monthly  that  the  best   of  all  Hook's 

*  Of  Colburn,  Lady  Morgan  said,  "  He  could  not  take  Ms  tea  without  a  stratagem.    He  was  a  strange  milangei 
of  meanness  and  munificence  in  his  dealings." 


156  MEMORIES. 

works,  "  Gilbert  Gurney,"  was  published  in  that  magazine.  The  part  for  the 
ensuing  number  was  rarely  ready  until  the  last  moment ;  and  more  than  once  at  so 
late  a  period  of  the  month,  that  unless  in  the  printer's  hands  the  next  morning,  its 
publication  would  have  been  impossible.  I  have  driven  to  Fulham,  to  find  not  a 
line  of  the  article  written  ;  and  I  have  waited,  sometimes  nearly  all  night,  until  the 
MS.  was  produced.  Now  and  then  he  would  relate  to  me  one  of  the  raciest  of  the 
anecdotes  before  he  penned  it  down  ;  sometimes  as  the  raw  statement  of  a  fact 
before  it  had  received  its  habiliments  of  fiction,  but  often  as  even  a  more  brilliant 
story  than  the  reader  found  it  on  the  first  of  the  month.* 

Hook  was  in  the  habit  of  sending  pen-and-ink  sketches  of  himself  in  his  letters. 
I  had  one  of  especial  interest,  in  which  he  represented  himself  down  upon  knees, 
with  handkerchief  to  eyes.  The  meaning  was  to  indicate  his  grief  at  being  late 
with  his  promised  article  for  the  l^eiv  Monthhj,  and  his  begging  pardon  thereupon. 
He  had  great  facility  for  taking  off"  likenesses. 

Here  is  Hook's  contribution  to  Mrs.  Hall's  Album  : — 

"Having  been  requested  to  do  that  which  I  never  did  in  my  life  before,  write  two  charades 
upon  two  given  and  by  no  means  sublime  words,  here  they  are.  It  is  right  to  say  that  they  are 
to  be  taken  with  reference  to  each  other. 

"  My  first  is  in  triumphs  most  usually  found  ; 
Old  houses  and  trees  show  my  second ; 
My  whole  is  long,  spiral,  red,  tufted,  and  round, 
And  with  beef  is  most  excellent  reckoned. 

"  My  first  for  age  hath  great  repute, 
My  second  is  a  tailor ; 
My  whole  is  like  the  other  root, 
.  Only  a  iiJWe  paler." 

"Theodore  E.  Hook, 

Se2}t.  Uh,  1835. 
"  Do  you  give  them  up  ?     "  Car-rot. 

"Par-snip." 

The  reader  may  permit  me  here  to  introduce  some  Memories  of  the  immediate 
contemporaries  and  allies  of  Hook,  whose  names  are,  indeed,  continually  associated 
with  his,  and  who,  on  the  principle  of  "  birds  of  a  feather,"  may  be  properly 
considered  in  association  with  this  master-spirit  of  them  all. 

The  Eev.  Richard  Harris  Barham,  whose  notes  supplied  material  for  the 
"  Memoirs  of  Hook,"  edited  by  his  son,  and  whose  "  Ingoldsby  Legends "  are 
famous,  was  a  stout,  squat,  and  "hearty-looking  parson"  of  the  old  school.  His 
face  was  full  of  humour,  although,  when  quiescent,  it  seemed  dull  and  heavy ;  his 
eyes  were  singularly  small  and  inexpressive — whether  from  their  own  colour,  or  the 
light  tint  of  the  lashes,  I  cannot  say,  but  they  seemed  to  me  to  be  what  are  called 
white  eyes.  I  do  not  believe  that  in  society  he  had  much  of  the  sparkle  that 
characterised  his  friend,  or  that  might  have  been  expected  in  so  formidable  a  wit  of 
the  pen.     Sam  Beazley,  on  the   contrary,  was  a  light,  airy,  graceful  person,  who 

*  Hook's  biographer  does  not  seem,  to  have  been  aware  that  for  several  months  before  he  became  editor  of  the 
New  Monthly,  he  wrote  the  "  Monthly  Commentary"  for  that  magazine — a  pleasant,  piquant,  and  sometimes  severe 
series  of  comments  on  the  leading  topics  or  events  of  the  month. 


^ 


TOM  HILL. 


157 


had  much  refinement,  without  that  peculiar  manner  which  bespeaks  the  well-bred 
gentleman.  He  was  the  "  Daly  "  of  "  Gilbert  Gurney,"  whose  epitaph  was  written 
by  Hook  long  before  his  death  : — 

"  Here  lies  Sam  Beazley, 
Who  lived  hard,  and  died  easily."  * 

When  1  knew  him  he  was  practising  as  an  architect  in  Soho  Square.  He  was  one 
of  Hook's  early  friends,  but  I  believe  they  were  not  in  close  intimacy  for  some  years 
previous  to  the  death  of  Hook. 

Tom  Hill  was  another  of  Hook's  frequent  and  familiar  associates  :  he  is  the 
"  Hull  "  of  "  Gilbert  Gurney,"  and  is  said  to  have  been  the  original  of  "  Paul 
Pry"  (which  Poole,  however,  strenuously  denied),  a  belief  easily  entertained  by 
those  who  knew  the  man — a  little,  round  man  he  was,  with  straight  and  well-made- 
up  figure,  and  rosy  cheeks  that  might  have  graced  a  milkmaid,  when  his  years 
numbered  certainly  fourscore.!  Tom  Hill  was  a  drysalter  in  Queenhithe,  a  man  of 
narrow  education,  of  no  literary  attainment,  while  his  manners  were  by  no  means 
those  of  a  gentleman.  He  managed,  however,  to  draw  the  wits  about  him,  giving 
recherche  dinners  at  Sydenham,  never  costly.  He  was  in  reality  their  "  butt  ;  " 
some  liked  but  none  respected  him.  One  of  his  friends  pictures  him  as  "  a  little, 
fat,  florid  man — an  elderly  Cupid."  Another  says  "  he  had  a  face  like  a  peony."  He 
had  a  rare  collection  of  books,  of  which  he  knew  only  the  titles  and  their  marketable 
value  :  drysalting  and  literary  tastes  did  not  harmonise.  In  his  later  days  he  was 
poor  :  he  lived  and  died  in  third-floor  chambers  in  the  Adelphi.  But  his  age  no 
one  ever  knew.  The  story  is  well  known  of  James  Smith  asserting  that  it  never 
could  be  ascertained,  for  that  the  register  of  his  birth  was  lost  in  the  fire  of  London  ; 
and  Hook's  comment,  "  Oh,  he's  much  older  than  that ;  he's  one  of  the  little  Hills 
that  skipped  in  the  Bible."  He  was  a  merry  man,  toujours  gai,  who  seemed  as  if 
neither  trouble  nor  anxiety  had  ever  crossed  his  threshold,  or  broken  the  sleep  of  a 
single  night.  His  peculiar  faculty  was  to  find  out  what  everybody  did,  from  a 
minister  of  state  to  a  stable-boy ;  and  there  are  tales  enough  told  of  his  chats  with 
child-maids  in  the  park  to  ascertain  the  amounts  of  their  wages,  and  with  lounging 
footmen  in  Grosvenor  Square  to  learn  how  many  guests  had  dined  at  a  house  the 
day  before.  His  curiosity  seemed  bent  upon  prying  into  small  things  ;  for  secrets 
that  invqlved  serious  matters  he  appeared  to  care  nothing.  "  Pooh,  pooh,  sir,  don't 
tell  me  !  I  happen  to  know  !  "—that  phrase  was  continually  coming  from  his  lips. 
It  is  said  that  when  he  gave  a  penny  to  a  crossing-sweeper,  he  used  to  ask  his  name 
and  address. 

Of  a  far  higher  and  better  order  was  Hook's  friend  Mr.  Brodrick,  so  long  one  of 
the  police  magistrates,  a  gentleman   of  large  acquirements  and  sterling  rectitude. 


*  Mr.  Peake,  the  dramatist,  who  wrote  most  of  Mathews'  "  At  Homes,"  attributes  this  epitaph  to  John  Hard- 
wick.  Lookhart  gives  it  to  Hook.  Hook  pictures  Beazley  in  "  Gilbert  Gmmey."  "  His  conversation  was  full  of 
droll  conceits,  mixed  with  a  considerable  degree  of  superior  talent,  and  the  strongest  evidence  of  general  acquu-e- 
ments  and  accomplishments."  -,  ,  x-^  i.-  j  ,     • 

t  •  He  was  plump,  short,  with  an  intelligent  countenance,  and  near-sighted  ;  with  a  constitution  and  complexion 
fresh  enough  to  look  forty,  when  I  believed  him  to  be  at  least  four  times  that  a.ge."—GUl)ert  Ourney. 


Nearly  as  much  may  be  said  of  Dubois,  more  than  half  a  century  ago  the  editor  of 
a  then  popular  magazine,  the  Monthly  Mirror.  Dubois,  in  his  latter  days,  eujoyed 
"  the  sweets  of  office  "  as  a  magistrate  in  the  Court  of  Bequests. '  He  was  a  pleasant 
man  in  face  and  in  manners,  and  retained  to  the  last  much  of  the  humour  that 
characterised  the  productions  of  his  earlier  years.  To  the  admirable  actor  and 
estimable  gentleman,  Charles  Mathews,  I  can  merely  allude.  His  memory  has 
received  full  honour  and  homage  from  his  wife,  but  there  are  few  who  knew  him 
who  will  hesitate  to  indorse  her  testimony  to  his  many  excellences  of  head  and 
heart. 

I  knew  William  Maginn,  LL.D.,  when  he  was  a  schoolmaster  in  Cork,  where  he 
was  born  in  1794.  He  died  in  London  in  1842.  When  very  young  he  established 
a  reputation  for  scholastic  knowledge,  and  attained  some  eminence  as  a  wit ;  and 
about  the  year  1820  astounded  "the  beautiful  city"  by  poetical  contributions  to 
BlackivootV s  Mafiazine,  in  which  certain  literary  citizens  of  Cork  were  somewhat 
scurrilously  assailed.  The  doctor,  it  is  said,  was  invited  to  London  in  order  to 
share  with  Hook  the  labours  of  the  John  Bull.-'-  I  believe,  however,  he  was  but  a 
very  limited  "  help  ;  "  perhaps  the  old  adage,  "  two  of  a  trade  "  applied  in  this  case. 
Certain  it  is  that  he  subsequently  found  a  more  appreciative  paymaster  in  Westma- 
cott,  who  conducted  the  Age,  a  newspaper  then  greatly  patronised,  but,  as  I  have 
said,  one  that  now  would  be  universally  branded  with  the  term  "  infamous." 

It  is  known,  also,  that  he  beca-me  a  leading  contributor  to  Fraser's  Magazine,  a 
magazine  that  took  its  name  less  from  its  publisher,  Fraser,  than  from  its  first  editor, 
Fraser,  a  barrister,  whose  fate  I  have  understood  was  mournful,  as  his  career  had 
been  discreditable.  The  particulars  of  Maginn's  duel  with  the  Hon.  Grantley 
Berkeley  are  well  known.  It  arose  out  of  an  article  in  Fraser  reviewing  Berkeley's 
novel,  in  the  course  of  which  he  spoke  in  utterly  unjustifiable  terms  of  Berkeley's 
mother.  Mr.  Berkeley  was  not  satisfied  with  inflicting  on  the  publisher  so  severe 
a  beating  that  it  was  the  proximate  cause  of  his  death,  but  called  out  the  doctor, 
who  had  manfully  avowed  the  authorship.  Each,  it  is  understood,  fired  three  shots 
without    effect,  and  when  Fraser,  who  was  Maginn's  second,  asked  him  if  there 

should  be  another  shot,  Maginn  is  reported  to  have  said,  "Blaze  away,  by !  a 

barrel  of  powder  !  "f 

The  career  of  Maginn  in  London  was,  to  say  the  least,  mournful.  Few  men 
ever  started  with  better  prospects ;  there  was  hardly  any  position  to  which  he  might 
not  have  aspired.  His  learning  was  profound  ;  his  wit  of  the  tongue  and  of  the 
pen  ready,  pointed,  caustic,  and  briUiant ;  his  essays,  tales,  poems,  scholastic  disqui- 
sitions— in  short,  his  writings  upon  all  conceivable  topics  were  of  the  very  highest 
order.     "  O'Dogherty "   is   one    of  the   names   that  made  Blackwood  famous.     His 

*  Lockhart,  in  one  of  his  letters  to  Wilson,  in  1824,  expresses  a  belief  that  Maginn  had  come  over  (from 
Ireland)  to  assist  Theodore  Hook  in  the  John  Bull,  and  "  to  do  all  sorts  of  bye  jobs."  That  was  after  hehad  become 
somewhat  renowned  as  a  leading  contributor  to  Blackwood.  His  fli'st  article  in  Blackwood  was,  I  believe,  a  transla- 
tion into  Latin  of  the  ballad  of  "  Chevy  Chase." 

+  Since  this  was  written,  Mr.  Grantley  Berkeley  has  published,  in  a  volume  of  his  "  ReooUections,"  full  details 
of  this  duel.    It  is,  of  course,  an  ex  parte  statement— very  ex  parte  indeed. 


DR.   MAGINN.  159 


acquaintances,  who  would  willingly  have  been  his  friends,  were  not  only  the  men  of 
genius  of  his  time  ;  among  them  were  several  noblemen  and  statesmen  of  power  as 
well  as  rank.  In  a  word,  he  might  have  climbed  to  the  highest  rung  of  the  ladder, 
with  helping  hands  all  the  way  up  :  he  stumbled  and  fell  at  its  base. 

It  is  notorious  that  Maginn  wrote  at  the  same  time  for  the  Age,  outrageously  Tory, 
and  for  the  True  Sim,  a  violently  Kadical  paper.  For  many  years  he  was  editor  of 
the  Standard.  It  was,  however,  less  to  his  thorough  want  of  principle  than  to  his 
habits  of  intoxication  that  his  position  was  low  when  it  ought  to  have  been  high  ;  that 
he  was  indigent  when  he  might  have  been  rich ;  that  he  lost  self-respect  and  the 
respect  of  all  with  whom  he  came  in  contact,  except  the  few  "kindred  spirits"  who 
relished  the  flow  of  wit,  and  little  regarded  the  impure  source  whence  it  issued. 

Maginn's  reckless  habits  soon  told  upon  his  character,  and  almost  as  soon  on  his 
constitution.  They  may  be  illustrated  by  an  anecdote  related  of  him  in  Barham's  Life 
of  Hook.  A  friend,  when  dining  with  him  and  praising  his  wine,  asked  where  he  got 
it.  "At  the  tavern  close  by,"  said  the  doctor.  "A  very  good  cellar,"  said  the 
guest ;  "  but  do  you  not  pay  rather  an  extravagant  price  for  it  ?"  "I  don't  know,  I 
don't  know,"  returned  the  doctor;  "I  believe  they  do  put  down  something  in  a 
book."  And  I  have  heard  of  Maginn  a  story  similar  to  that  told  of  Sheridan,  that 
once  when  he  accepted  a  bill,  he  exclaimed  to  the  astonished  debtor,  "Well,  thank 
Heaven,  that  debt  is  off  my  mind  !  " 

The  evil  seemed  incurable ;  it  was  not  only  indulged  in  at  noon  and  night,  but  at 
morning.  He  was  one  of  the  eight  editors  engaged  by  Mr.  Murray  to  edit  the  Repre- 
sentative during  the  eight  months  of  its  existence.  I  was  a  reporter  on  that  paper  of 
great  promise  and  large  hopes.  One  evening  Maginn  himself  undertook  to  write  a 
notice  of  a  fancy  ball  at  the  Opera  House  in  aid  of  the  distressed  weavers  of  Spital- 
fields.  It  was  a  grand  affair,  patronised  by  the  royal  family  and  a  vast  proportion  of 
the  aristocracy  of  England.  Maginn  went,  of  course  inebriated,  and  returned  worse. 
He  contemplated  the  affair  as  if  it  had  taken  place  among  the  thieves  and  the  demireps 
of  Whitechapel,  and  so  described  it  in  the  paper  of  the  next  morning.  Well  I  remember 
the  indignation  of  John  Murray,  and  the  universal  disgust  the  article  excited. 

I  may  relate  another  anecdote  to  illustrate  this  sad  characteristic.  It  was  told  to 
me  by  one  of  the  doctor's  old  pupils  and  most  intimate  and  steady  friends,  Mr. 
Quinten  Kennedy,  of  Cork.  A  gentleman  was  anxious  to  secure  Maginn's  services 
for  a  contemplated  literary  undertaking  of  magnitude,  and  the  doctor  was  to  dine  with 
him  to  arrange  the  affair.  Kennedy  was  resolved  that  at  all  events  he  should  go  to 
the  dinner  sober,  and  so  called  upon  him  before  he  was  up,  never  leaving  him  for  a 
moment  all  day,  and  resolutely  resisting  every  imploring  appeal  for  a  dram.  The 
hour  of  six  drew  near,  and  they  sallied  out.  On  the  way  Kennedy  found  it  almost 
impossible,  even  by  main  force,  to  prevent  the  doctor's  entering  a  public-house.  On 
their  road  they  passed  an  undertaker's  shop  ;  the  doctor  suddenly  stopped,  recollected 
he  had  a  message  there,  and  begged  Kennedy  to  wait  for  a  moment  outside.  The 
request  was  complied  with,  as  there  could  be  no  possible  danger  in  such  a  place. 
Maginn  entered,  with  his  handkerchief  to  his  eyes,  sobbing  bitterly :  the  imdertaker, 
recognising  a  prospective  customer,  sought  to  subdue  his  grief  with  the  usual  words 


i6o  MEMORIES. 


of  consolation,  Maginn  blubbering  out,  "  Everything  must  be  done  in  the  best  style — 
no  expense  must  be  spared;  she  was  worthy,  and  I  can  afford  it."  The  undertaker, 
seeing  such  intense  grief,  presented  a  seat,  and  prescribed  a  little  brandy.  After 
sufficient  resistance  both  were  accepted.  A  bottle  was  produced,  and  emptied,  glass 
after  glass,  with  suggested  instructions  between  whiles.  At  length  the  doctor  rose  to 
join  his  wondering  and  impatient  friend,  who  soon  saw  what  had  happened.  He  was, 
even  before  dinner,  in  such  a  state  as  to  preclude  all  business  talk ;  and  it  is  needless 
to  add  that  the  contemplated  arrangement  was  never  made. 

He  lived  in  wretchedness  and  died  in  misery — wantonly  worn  out  at  the  age  of 
forty-two.  His  death  took  place  at  Walton-on-Thames,  and  in  the  churchyard  of  that 
village  he  is  buried.  Not  long  ago  I  visited  the  place,  but  no  one  could  point  out  to 
me  the  precise  spot  of  his  interment.  It  is  without  a  stone,  without  a  mark,  lost 
among  the  clay  sepulchres  of  the  throng  who  had  no  friends  to  inscribe  a  name  or  ask 
a  memory.* 

Maginn  was  rather  under  than  above  the  middle  size ;  his  countenance  was 
"  swarthy,"  and  by  no  means  genial  in  expression.  He  had  a  peculiar  thickness  of 
speech,  not  quite  a  stutter.  Latterly  excesses  told  upon  him,  producing  their  usual 
effects.  The  quick  intelligence  of  his  face  was  lost ;  his  features  were  sullied  by 
unmistakable  signs  of  an  ever-degrading  habit ;  he  was  old  before  his  time.  He  is 
another  sad  example  to  "  warn  and  scare."  A  life  that  might  have  produced  so  much 
yielded  comparatively  nothing ;  and  although  there  have  been  suggestions,  from 
Lockhart  and  others,  to  collect  his  writings,  they  have  never  been  gathered  together 
from  the  periodical  tombs  in  which  they  lie  buried,  and  now,  probably,  they  cannot 
be  all  recognised.! 

Among  the  leading  contributors  to  the  'New  MontJily,  before  and  after  the  advent 
of  Mr.  Hook,  was  John  Poole,  the  author  of  "  Little  Pedlington,"  "  Paul  Pry,"  and 
many  other  pleasant  works — not  witty,  but  full  of  true  humour.  He  was,  when  in  his 
prime,  a  pleasant  companion,  though  nervously  sensitive ;  and,  like  most  professional 
"jokers,"  irritable  exceedingly  whenever  a  joke  was  made  to  tell  against  himself. 

It  is  among  my  "  Memories  "  that  during  the  first  month  of  my  editorship  of  the 
New  Monthly  I  took  from  a  mass  of  submitted  MS.  one  written  in  a  small,  neat  hand, 
entitled  "  A  New  Guide  Book."  I  had  read  it  nearly  half  through,  and  was  about  to 
fling  it  with  contempt  among  "the  rejected"  before  I  discovered  its  point.  I  had 
perused  it,  so  far,  as  an  attempt  to  describe  an  actual  watering-place,  and  to  bring  it 
into  notoriety.     When,  however,  I  did  discover  the  real  purpose  of  the  writer,  my 

*  While  on  Ms  death-bed  Sir  Eohert  Peel  sent  him  a  sum  of  money,  probably  not  the  iirst.  It  arrived  in  time 
to  pay  his  funeral  expenses. 

t  In  September,  1842,  a  subscription  was  made  for  the  widow  and  children  of  Dr.  Maginn,  Dr.  Gilfard  ((hen 
editor  of  the  Standard)  and  Lockhart  being  trustees  in  England  ;  the  Bishop  of  Cork,  and  the  Provost  of  Trinity 
College,  DubHn,  in  Ireland  ;  and  Professor  Wilson,  in  Scotland.  The  "  card"  that  was  issued  stated  truly  that 
"  no  one  ever  listened  to  Maginn's  conversation,  or  perused  even  the  hastiest  of  his  minor  writings,  without  feeling 
the  influence  of  very  extraordinary  talent.  His  classical  learning  was  profound  and  accurate,  his  mastery  of  modern 
languages  almost  unrivalled,  his  knowledge  of  mankind  and  their  afl'airs  great  and  multifarious  ;"  but  it  did  not 
state  that  which  was  true  when  it  stated  that,  "  in  all  his  essays,  veise  or  prose,  serious  or  comic,  he  never  trespassed 
against  decorum  or  sound  morals,"  or  that  "the  keenness  of  his  wit  was  combined  with  such  playfulness  of  fancy, 
good-humour,  and  kindness  of  natural  sentiment,  that  his  merits  were  ungrudgingly  acknowledged  even  by  those 
of  polities  most  different  from  his  ovm."    On  the  contrary,  such  a  statement  was  palpably  and  notoriously  untiue. 


yOHN  POOLE.  i6i 


delight  was  large  in  proportion.  The  MS.  was  the  first  part  of  "  Little  Pedlington." 
I  believe  he  had  then  no  intention  of  continuing  it ;  "  it  was  complete  in  itself,"  but 
the  popularity  it  acquired  induced  him  to  make  of  it  a  book.  It  was  "  drawn  out  " 
until  it  became  a  mere  thread. 

It  was,  as  I  have  said,  generally  believed  that  Tom  Hill  suggested  the  character 
of  Paul  Pry.  Poole  never  would  admit  this.  In  1831  he  wrote  a  sort  of  "  funny" 
autobiography  for  the  JV^eu'  MojUhly  (to  accompany  a  portrait  of  him  published  there), 
in  which  he  declined  to  tell  his  age,  where  he  was  born,  what  he  had  written,  what 
he  was  inclined  to  do,  or,  indeed,  anything  about  himself,  except  that  Hamlet  Tra- 
vestie  was  published  in  1810.  But  that  was  "  when  he  was  a  child,"  and  the  piece  of 
Tomfoolery  led  to  his  bemg  a  writer  for  the  stage,  his  first  farce  being  Who's  Who  ? 
In  that  article  he  thus  gave  the  origin  of  Paul  Pry : 

"  The  idea  of  tlie  character  of  Paul  Pry  was  suggested  to  me  by  the  following  anecdote  related 
to  rae  several  years  ago  by  a  beloved  friend.  An  idle  old  lady,  living  in  a  narrow  street,  had 
passed  so  much  of  her  time  in  watching  the  affairs  of  her  neighbours,  that  she  at'length  acquired 
the  power  of  distinguishing  the  sound  of  every  knocker  within  hearing.  It  happened  that  she  fell 
ill,  and  was,  for  several  days,  confined  to  her  bed.  Unable  to  observe,  in  person,  what  was  going 
on  without,  she  stationed  her  maid  at  the  window,  as  a  substitute  for  the  performance  of  that 
duty.  But  Betty  soon  grew  weary  of  the  occupation.  She  became  careless  in  her  reports, 
impatient  and  tetchy  when  reprimanded  for  her  negligence.  '  Betty,  what  are  you  thinking  about  ? 
Don't  you  hear  a  double  knock  at  No.  92  ?  Who  is  it  ? '  '  The  first-floor  lodger,  ma'am.'  '  Betty, 
Betty,  I  declare  I  must  give  you  warning  ;  why  don't  you  tell  me  what  that  knock  is  at  No.  54  r ' 
'  Why,  lor,  it's  only  the  baker  with  pies.'  '  Pies,  Betty  !  What  can  they  want  with  pies  at  54  ? 
They  had  pies  yesterday  I '  " 

Poole  had  the  happy  knack  of  turning  every  trifling  incident  to  valuable  account. 
I  remember  his  telling  me  an  anecdote  in  illustration  of  this  faculty.  I  believe  he 
never  printed  it.  Being  at  Brighton  one  day,  he  strolled  into  an  hotel  to  get  an  early 
dinner,  took  his  seat  at  a  table,  and  was  discussing  his  chop  and  ale,  when  another 
guest  entered,  took  his  stand  by  the  fire,  and  began  whistling.  After  a  minute  or 
two,  "Fine  day,  sir,"  said  he.  "Very  fine,"  answered  Poole.  "Business  pretty 
brisk?"  "  I  believe  so."  "  Do  anything  with  Jones  on  the  Parade  ?"  "  Now,"  said 
Poole,  "  it  so  happened  that  Jones  was  the  grocer  from  whom  I  occasionally  bought  a 
quarter  of  a  pound  of  tea,  so  I  answered,  '  A  little.'  "  "  Good  man,  sir,"  quoth  the 
stranger.  "  Glad  to  hear  it,  sir."  "Do  anything  with  Thompson  in  North  Street  ?" 
"  No,  sir."  "  Shaky,  sir."  "  Sorry  to  hear  it,  sir  ;  recommend  Mohammed's  baths  !" 
"  Anything  with  Smith  in  James  Street  ?"  "  Nothing.  I  have  heard  the  name  of 
Smith  before  certainly,  but  of  this  particular  Smith  I  know  nothing."  The  stranger 
looked  at  Poole  earnestly,  advanced  to  the  table,  and,  with  his  arms  a-kimbo,  said, 
"  By  Jove,  sir,  I  begin  to  think  you  are  a  gentleman  !"  "  I  hope  so,  sir,"  answered 
Poole,  "  and  I  hope  you  are  much  the  same."  "  Nothing  of  the  kind,  sir,"  said  the 
stranger,  "  and  if  you  are  a  gentleman,  what  business  have  you  here  ?"  upon  which 
he  rang  the  bell,  and  as  the  waiter  entered,  indignantly  exclaimed,  "  That's  a  gentle- 
man ;  turn  him  out !"  Poole  had  unluckily  entered,  and  taken  his  seat  in,  the  com  = 
mercial  room  of  the  hotel. 

All  who  knew  Poole  know  that  he  was  ever  full  of  himself,  behevmg  his  renown 
to  be  the  common  talk  of  the  world.     A  whimsical  illustration  of  this  weakness  was 


lately  told  me  by  a  mutual  friend.  When  at  Paris  some  time  ago,  lie  chanced  to  say 
to  Poole,  "  Of  course  you  are  free  at  all  the  theatres  ?"  "  No,  sir,  I  am  not,"  he 
answv-red  solemnly  and  indignantly.  "  Will  you  believe  this  ?  I  went  to  the  Opera 
Comique,  and  told  the  director  I  wished  for  a  free  admission.  He  asked  me  who  I 
was.  I  said,  '  John  Poole  ! '  Sir,  I  ask  yoii,  will  you  believe  this  ?  He  said,  he 
didnt  know  me  /" 

The  Queen  gave  him  a  nomination  to  the  Charter-house,  where  his  age  might 
have  been  passed  in  ease,  respectability,  'comfort,  and  competence ;  but  it  was 
impossible  for  one  so  restless  to  bear  the  wholesome  and  necessary  restraint  of  that 
institution.  He  came  to  me  one  day,  boiling  over  with  indignation,  having  resolved 
to  quit  its  quiet  cloisters — his  principal  ground  for  complaint  being  that  he  must  dine' 
at  two  o'clock,  and  be  within  walls  by  ten.  He  resigned  the  appointment,  but  subse- 
quently obtained  one  of  the  Crown  pensions,  and  took  up  his  final  abode  in  Paris, 
where  during  the  last  ten  years  of  his  life  he  lived — if  that  can  be  called  "life" 
which  consisted  of  one  scarcely  ever  interrupted  course  of  self-sacrifice  to  eau-de-vie. 
His  mind  was,  of  late,  entirely  gone.  I  met  him  in  1861,  in  the  Eue  St.  Honore,  and 
he  did  not  recognise  me. 

I  am  not  aware  of  any  details  concerning  his  death.  When  I  last  inquired  con- 
cerning him,  all  I  could  learn  was  that  he  had  gone  to  live  at  Boulogne ;  that  two 
quarters  had  passed  without  any  application  from  him  for  his  pension  ;  and  that  there- 
fore of  course  he  was  dead. 

He  was  a  tall,  handsome  man,  by  no  means  "jolly"  like  some  of  his  contem- 
porary wits — rather,  I  should  say,  inclined  to  be  taciturn  ;  and  I  do  not  think  his 
habits  of  drinking  were  excited  by  the  stimulants  of  society."  Little,  I  believe,  is 
known  of  his  life — even  to  the  actors  and  playwrights  with  whom  he  chiefly  associated 
— from  the  time  when  his  burlesque  of  Hamlet  Travestie  (printed  in  1810)  commenced 
his  career  of  celebrity,  if  not  of  fame,  to  his  death,  in  the  year  1862,  I  believe,  being 
then  probably  about  seventy  years  old.  He  is  perhaps  entitled  to  a  more  enlarged 
Memory  than  I  can  give  him. 

One  of  the  earlier  contributors  to  the  John  Bull,  and  a  frequent  contributor  to  the 
New  Monthly,  was  the  "  song-writer  "-—Thomas  Haynes  Bayly.  He  was  of  a  good 
family,  born  in  Bath.  Although  his  songs,  of  which  he  wrote  many  hundreds,  are 
now  seldom  heard,  there  was  a  time  when  every  street  chorister  had  them  perpetually 
on  his  tongue ;  and  a  barrel-organ  would  have  been  very  imperfect  if  it  did  not  con- 
tain at  least,  "I'd  be  a  butterfly,"  and  "  Oh,  no  !  we  never  mention  her."  In  fact, 
the  ear  was  cloyed  by  their  perpetual  repetition  at  the  corner  of  every  lane  and  alley 
of  the  metropolis  ;  yet  not  there  only  :  for  a  long  time  they  were  the  "  pets  "  of  the 
drawing-room,  and  favourites  at  all  the  theatres,  being  generally  wedded  to  simple 
music  that  suited  the  tastes  of  the  masses. 

Haynes  Bayly  was  a  gentleman  of  refined  habits,  tall,  slight,  and  of  handsome 


«  He  played  a  prac"ical  joke  upon  the  actors  of  the  Brighton  Theatre,  who  were  defective  of  a  letter  in  their 
dialogue,  by  sending-  to  them  a  packet,  containing,  of  various  sizes,  the  letter  H. 


I 


THEODORE  HOOK.  163 


person  and  agreeable  manners.  His  father  was  an  eminent  solicitor  of  Bath,  and 
at  one  period  of  his  life  he  was  rich.  He  lost  his  inheritance,  however,  it  was  under- 
stood, by  the  rascality  of  a  trustee.  ' 

There  was  another  Bayley — his  very  opposite  in  all  ways — F.  W,  N.  Bayley, 
who  was  usually  distinguished  as  "Initial  Bayley."  He,  too,  wrote  songs,  and 
they  were  popular,  but  his  productions  were  often  mistaken  for  those  of  his  name- 
sake, which  they  resembled  much  as  does  the  pinchbeck  of  Birmingham  the  pure 
gold  of  twenty  carats.  He  prided  himself  on  copying  Maginn,  whom  he  was  rather 
like  in  person,  and  certainly  in  acquired  "  ways,"  even  to  the  slight  stutter — a 
peculiarity  of  his  prototype.  He  died  young,  the  victim,  no  doubt,  of  perilous 
habits,  which  could  not  stand  the  wear  and  tear  of  life  as  "  a  bookseller's  hack." 
He  had,  however,  much  natural  wit,  and  a  singular  facility  in  writing  rhymes,  some 
of  which  were  certainly  above  mediocrity.  There  is  one  of  his  books  that  yet  lives  ; 
it  describes  the  adventures  of  two  tourists  in  India  who  made  their  escape  in  a  very 
odd  way  from  a  tiger.  Few  can  remember  and  recall  him  now  ;  and  there  are  not 
many  who  have  read  a  line  of  his  multifarious  "  scribblings  "  in  prose  and  verse. 

Other  "aids"  of  the  John  Bull  1  might  summon  from  the  "  vasty  deep;"  but 
there  are  not  many  of  them  whose  names  are  worthy  the  record  of  even  a  line. 

From  what  I  have  written,  the  reader  will  gather  that  I  only  knew  Hook  in  his 
decline^ — the  relic  of  a  manly  form,  the  decadence  of  a  strong  mind,  and  the  com- 
parative exhaustion  of  a  brilliant  wit.  Leigh  Hunt,  speaking  of  him  at  a  much 
earlier  period,  thus  writes  : — "  He  was  tall,  dark,  and  of  a  good  person,  with  small 
eyes,  and  features  more  round  than  weak ;  a  face  that  had  character  and  humour, 
but  no  refinement."  And  Mrs.  Mathews  describes  him  as  with  sparkling  eyes  and 
expressive  features,  of  manly  form,  and  somewhat  of  a  dandy  in  dress.  When  in 
the  prime  of  manhood  and  the  zenith  of  fame,  Mr.  Barham  says,  "  he  was  not  the 
tuft-hunter,  but  the  tuft-hunted;"  and  it  is  easy  to  believe  that  one  so  full  of  wit, 
so  redolent  of  fun,  so  rich  in  animal  spirits,  must  have  been  a  marvellously  coveted 
acquaintance  in  the  society  where  he  was  so  eminently  calculated  to  shine  ;  from  that 
of  royalty  to  the  major  and  minor  clubs ;  from  the  "  Athenaeum  "  to  the  "  Garrick," 
of  which  he  was  a  cherished  member. 

In  1828,  when  I  first  saw  him,  he  was  above  the  middle  height,  robust  of  frame, 
and  broad  of  chest ;  well-proportioned,  with  evidence  of  great  physical  capacity  ; 
his  complexion  dark,  as  were  his  eyes.  There  was  nothing  fine  or  elevated  in  his 
expression  ;  indeed,  his  features  when  in  repose  were  heavy ;  it  was  otherwise  when 
animated  ;  yet  his  manners  were  those  of  a  gentleman,  less,  perhaps,  from  inherent 
faculty  than  from  the  polish  which  refined  society  ever  gives.* 

He  is  described  as  a  man  of  "  iron  energies,"  and  certainly  must  have  had  an 

»  The  portrait  that  heads  this  Memory  is  from  a  drawing  made  by  Mr.  Eddis  for  the  coUeotion  of  Mr.  Magrath, 
long  the  respected  secretary  of  the  Athenaeum  Club. 

M    2 


1 64 


MEMORIES. 


iron  constitution,  for  his  was  a  life  of  perpetual  stimulants,  intellectual  as  well  as 
physical. 

When  I  saw  him  last — it  was  not  long  before  his  death — he  was  aged,  more  by 
care  than  time  ;  his  face  bore  evidence  of  what  is  falsely  termed  "  a  gay  life  ;  "  his 


THE   BUUIAL-PLACE    OF  TIIEODOHE   HOOK. 


voice  had  lost  its  roundness  and  force,  his  form  its    buoyancy,  his  intellect  its 
strength. 


'  Alas !  how  changed  from  him, 
That  life  of  pleasure,  and  that  soul  of  whim !  " 


Yet  his  wit  was  ready  still ;  he  continued  to  sparkle  humour  even  when  exhausted 
nature  failed,  and  his  last  words  are  said  to  have  been  a  brilliant  jest. 

At  length  the  iron  frame  wore  down ;  he  was  haunted  by  pecuniary  difficulties, 
yet  compelled  to  daily  work,  not  only  for  himself,  but  for  a  family  of  children  by  a 


THEODORE  HOOK.  165 


lady  to  whom  lie  was  not  married.  He  then  lived  almost  entirely  on  brandy,  and 
became  incapable  of  digesting  animal  food.  Well  might  his  friend  Lockhart  say, 
"  He  came  forth,  at  best,  from  a  long  day  of  labour  at  his  writing-desk,  after  his 
faculties  had  been  at  the  stretch  ;  feeling,  passion,  thought,  fancy,  excitable  nerves, 
suicidal  brain,  all  overworked,  perhaps  well-nigh  exhausted." 

And  thus,  "at  best,"  while  "  seated  among  the  revellers  of  a  princely  saloon," 
sometimes  losing  at  cards  among  his  great  "  friends"  more  money  than  he  could 
earn  in  a  month,  his  thoughts  were  labouring  to  devise  some  mode  of  postponing  a 
debt  only  from  one  week  to  another.  Well  might  he  have  compared,  as  he  did,  his 
position  to  that  of  an  alderman,  who  was  required  to  relish  his  turtle  soup  while 
forced  to  eat  it  sitting  on  a  tight  rope. 

The  last  time  he  went  out  to  dinner  was  with  Colonel  Shadwell  Clarke,  at 
Brompton  Grove.  While  in  the  drawing-room  he  suddenly  turned  to  the  mirror 
and  said, — "  Ay,  I  see  I  look  as  I  am,  done  up  in  purse,  in  mind,  and  in  body  too, 
at  last !  " 

Colonel  Clarke  was  the  editor  of  the  United  Service  Journal/''  a  magazine  pub- 
lished by  Mr.  Colburn,  to  represent  and  advocate  the  interests  of  the  army  and 
navy.  At  his  house  I  used  to  meet  many  of  the  officers  of  both  services  who  had 
distinguished  themselves  as  authors.  Captain  Marryatt  more  especially — a  short, 
stout,  thick-set  man,  who  walked,  and  looked,  and  spoke  as  if  he  were  at  home 
only  on  the  quarter-deck.  He  seemed  *'  every  inch  a  sailor,"  with  energy,  prompt- 
ness, and  courage.  He  may  be  said  to  have  commenced  the  class  of  naval  novels, 
in  which  he  had  many  followers  and  imitators  ;  but  none  of  them  have  retained  the 
pubHc  favour  that  is  still  given  to  "  The  King's  Own  "  and  "  Peter  Simple." 

Hook  died  on  the  24th  of  August,  1841,  at  the  comparatively  early  age  of  fifty- 
three,  and  was  buried  in  the  churchyard  at  Fulham,  which  adjoined  his  residence. 
His  grave  is  in  a  nook  under  the  Avest  window,  where  a  score  of  Bishops  of  London 
are  interred.  Close  beside  the  upright  stone  that  bears  the  name  of  Theodore  Edward 
Hook  is  the  tomb  of  Bishop  Sherlock. 

Yes,  when  I  knew  most  of  him,  he  was  approaching  the  close,  not  of  a  long,  but 
of  a  "  fast"  life.     He  had  ill-used  Time,  and  Time  was  not  in  his  debt. 

He  was  tall  and  stout,  but  not  healthfully  stout,  with  a  round  face,  which  told 
too  much  of  jovial  nights  and  wasted  days ;  of  toil  when  the  head  aches  and  the 
hand  shakes ;  of  the  absence  of  self-respect ;  of  mornings  in  ignoble  rest  to  gather 
strength  for  evenings  of  useless  energy;  of,  in  short,  a  mind  and  constitution  naturally 
vigorous  and  powerful,  but  sadly  and  grievously  misapplied  and  misused. 

No  writer  concerning  Hook  can  claim  for  him  an  atom  of  respect.  His  history 
is  but  a  record  of  written,  or  spoken,  or  practical  jokes,  that  made  no  one  wiser  or 
better.  His  career  "points  a  moral"  indeed,  but  it  is  by  showing  the  wisdom  of 
virtue.  In  the  end,  his  "  friends,"  so  called,  were  ashamed  openly  to  give  him  help  ; 
and  although  bailiffs  did  not — as  in  the  case  of  Sheridan — 

"  Seize  his  last  blanket," 
''  Colonel  Clarke  had  lost  a  leg  in  one  of  the  Peninsular  battles. 


his  death-bed  was  haunted  by  apprehensions  of  arrest,  and  it  was  a  relief  rather  than 
a  loss  to  society  when  a  few  comparatively  humble  mourners  laid  him  in  a  corner  of 
Fulham  Churchyard. 


Alas  !  let  not  those  who  read  the  records  of  many  distinguished,'  nay,  some 
illustrious,  lives  imagine  that  because  men  of  genius  have  too  often  cherished  the 
perilous  habit  of  seeking  consolation  or  inspiration  from  what  it  is  a  libel  on  nature 
to  call  "  the  social  glass,"  it  is  therefore  reasonable  or  excusable,  or  can  ever  be 
innocuous.  Talfourd  may  gloss  it  over  in  Lamb  as  averting  a  vision  terrible  ;  Beattie 
may  deplore  it  in  Campbell  as  having  become  a  dismal  necessity  ;  the  biographer  of 
Hook  may  lightly  look  upon  the  curse  as  the  spring-head  of  his  perpetual  wit.  I 
will  not  continue  the  list ;  it  is  frightfully  long.  Hook  is  but  one  of  many  men  of 
rare  intellect,  large  mental  powers,  with  faculties  designed  and  calculated  to  benefit 
mankind,  who  have  sacrificed  character,  life— I  had  almost  said  soul — to  habits  which 
are  wrongly  and  wickedly  called  pleasures — the  pleasures  of  the  table  !  Many  indeed 
are  they  who  have  thus  made  for  themselves  miserable  destinies,  useless  or  pernicious 
lives,  and  unhonoured  or  dishonourable  graves.  I  will  add  the  warning  of  great 
Wordsworth  when  addressing  the  sons  of  Burns  : — 

"  But  ne'er  to  a  seductive  lay- 
Let  faith  be  given ; 
Nor  deem  the  light  that  leads  astray 
Is  light  from  heaven." 

Take  also  the  impressive  warning  of  Earl  Eussell,  that  "  vice  in  men  of  wit  and 
intellect  is  of  tenfold  peril :  it  is  not  '  light  from  heaven,'  but  flashes  from  a  volcano 
that  has  its  source  in  hell !  " 


AMELIA   OPIE. 


MELIA  OPIE  lived  to  be  eighty-four  years  old,     I  saw  her  but  a 

short  time  before  her  death,  sitting  in  an  easy  chair,  in  her 

drawing-room  at  Norwich  ;   and  the  ruling  passion  was  still 

alive,  for  she  was  neatly  and  gracefully  dressed,  and  moved  as 

if  she  would  rise  from  her  seat  to  welcome  me.     She  had 

preserved  other  of  the  attributes  of  her  youth,  and  in  her  "  the 

beauty  of  age  "  was  a  charming  picture.     She  was  the  only 

child  of  James  Alderson,  M.D.,  and  was  born  on  the  12th  of 

November,   1769,  in  the  parish  of  St.  George,  Norwich,  and 

in  that  city  she  died  on  the  2nd  of  December,  1853,  having  passed  there  nearly 

the  whole  of  her  life  ;  for  when  she  became  a  widow  she  returned  to  it,  and, 

with  few  brief  intermissions,  it  was  ever  afterwards  her  home. 

She  did  not  become  an  author  until  after  her  marriage.  That  event  took 
place  in  1798.  Late  in  the  previous  year  she  wrote  to  one  of  her  friends, 
"Mr.  Opie  (but  mum)  is  my  declared  lover."  She  hints,  however,  that  her  heart 
was  pre-engaged,  and  that  she  "ingenuously"  told  him  so.  He  persisted, 
nevertheless.  At  that  time,  she  adds,  "  Mr.  Holcroft  also  had  a  mind  to  nje,"  but 
he  "  had  no  chance."  She  was  "  ambitious  of  being  a  wife  and  mother,"  and 
"  willing  to  wed  a  man  whose  genius  had  raised  him  from  obscurity  into  fame  and 
comparative  afifluence."      Her  future  husband  she  first  saw  at  an  evening  party, 


1 68  MEMORIES. 


as  she  entered  (as  her  friend  and  biographer,  Lucy  Brightwell,  states)  bright  and 
smiling,  dressed  in  a  robe  of  blue,  her  neck  and  arms  bare,  and  on  her  head  a  small 
bonnet,  placed  in  somewhat  coquettish  style,  sideways,  and  surmounted  by  a  plume 
of  three  white  feathers."  The  painter,  John  Opie,  was  "  smitten  "  at  first  sight.  He 
was  rugged  and  unpohshed  ;  she  had  the  grace  and  lightness  of  a  sylph.  He  (accord- 
ing to  Allan  Cunningham)  looked  like  an  inspired  peasant ;  she,  if  her  admirers  are 
to  be  credited,  had  the  form  and  mind  of  an  angel.  Yet  they  were  married,  in  Mary- 
lebone  Church,  on  the  8th  of  May,  1798  ;  the  young  bride  preserved  a  record  of  her 
trousseau — "  blue  bonnet,  eight  blue  feathers,  twelve  other  feathers,  two  blue  Scotch 
caps,  four  scollop'd-edge  caps  a  la  Marie  Stuart,  a  bead  cap,  a  tiara,  two  spencers 
with  lace  frills,  et  ctetera,  et  csetera." 

Opie  was  not  rich  ;  "  great  economy  and  self-denial  were  necessary  ; "  and  so  she 
became  "  a  candidate  for  the  pleasures,  the  pangs,  the  rewards,  and  the  penalties  of 
authorship." 

"  Gaiety  "  was  her  natural  bent ;  not  so  that  of  Opie  ;  yet  she  did  her  duty  by 
him  from  first  to  last ;  and  as,  no  doubt,  she  expected  little  of  romance,  giving  her 
husband  more  respect  than  love,  her  married  life  passed  in  easy  contentment  until 
bis  death  on  the  9th  of  April,  1807,  and  his  burial  in  St.  Paul's,  in  a  grave  beside 
that  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  She  bears  testimony  to  his  "  genial  worth  and  natural 
kindness  ; "  yet  he  was  undoubtedly  a  coarse  man  ;  as  one  who  knew  him  well  writes, 
"rugged  and  unpolished,  to  say  the  least,"  although,  as  Haydon  describes  him,  "of 
strong  understanding,  manly,  and  straightforward."* 

She  is  described,  at  that  period,  as  exceedingly  beautiful,  intellectual,  refined, 
graceful,  and  altogether  lovely.  She  sung  sweetly,!  painted  skilfully,  and  was 
remarkably  brilliant  in  conversation  ;  and  it  must  have  astonished  many  to  find  the 
lovely,  fascinating,  and  accomplished  girl  preferring  Opie  to  the  host  of  lovers  that 
gathered  in  her  wake. 

From  that  far-away  time  she  was  a  widow ;  as  she  mournfully  writes  in  after 
years,  "  a  lone  woman  through  life,  an  only  child,  a  childless  widow,"  yet  ever  as 
maid,  wife,  and  widow  enjoying  society,  for  some  time  the  gayest  of  the  gay,  but 
always  without  spot  or  blemish,  slander  never  having  touched  her  fame.  She  was 
all  her  life  long  "  true  and  lovely,  and  of  good  report." 

She  did  not  join  the  Society  of  "  Friends  "  until  the  year  1825,  although  she 
attended  their  meetings  much  earlier.  In  1814  she  writes,  "  I  left  the  Unitarians  ;" 
but  it  does  not  appear  that  she  was  ever  in  actual  connection  with  that  body, 
although  she  had  frequent  intercourse  with  them,  and  held  "  unsettled  opinions" 
concerning  the  Christian  faith. 

In  1825  her  father  died.  He,  too,  had  "  accepted  Christianity,"  was  "  a  believer 
in  the  atoning  work  of  the  Saviour,"  and,  if  not  a  Quaker,  was,  notwithstanding, 

*  The  biography  she  wrote  of  her  husband  she  considered  a  failui'e,  only  because  she  had  "not  done  justice  to 
his  talents  or  his  virtues.-' 

i-  She  was  perfect  as  a  musician,  according  to  the  simple  "  perfecting  "  of  those  days,  and  sung  with  power  and 
sweetness  the  music  then  in  vogue— the  "SaUy  in  our  Alley,"  the  "Savomneen  Deelish,"  the  soprano  songs  in 
Love  in  a  Village,  in  the  Beggars'  Opera,  and  Artaxerxes  ;  and,  added  to  this  fascinating  accomplishment,  she  had  a 
knowledge  of,' and  affection  for,  Art. 


AMELIA    OPIE.  169 


interred  in  the  Friends'  burying-ground  at  Norwich,  in  a  grave  in  which  his  daughter 
was  laid  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  afterwards. 

Probably  it  was  her  intimacy  with  the  family  of  the  Gurneys  (honoured  be  the 
name,  for  it  has  long  been,  and  is,  that  of  many  good  women  and  good  men)  that  led 
to  her  joining  the  Society  of  Friends.  It  is  said,  indeed,  that  she  had  an  early 
attachment  to  one  of  them,  Joseph  John  Gurney.  He  had  known  her  when  "  a  gay 
and  lively  girl,"  when  she  was  a  beautiful  and  young  widow,  and  when  she  was 
sedate  and  aged  ;  and  perhaps,  as  far  as  we  can  think  and  see,  it  is  to  be  lamented 
that  she  did  not  become  his  wife  ;  for  that  they  had  devoted  friendship  each  for  the 
other  there  can  be  no  doubt. 

It  was  soon  after  she  had  become  a  Quaker  we  first  knew  her.  As  a  trait  of 
character,  I  may  mention  that  about  this  time  I  had  occasion  to  Avrite  and  ask  her  to 
furnish  a  story  for  a  work  I  was  then  conducting,  the  Amulet.     In  reply,  she  stated 


£Z^ 


it  was  opposed  to  her  principles  to  write  a  story,  but  she  would  send  me  an  anecdote. 
She  did  so,  and  the  distinction  made  no  difference,  for  a  very  touching  and  pathetic 
story,  called  "  An  Anecdote,"  I  received.* 

Not  long  afterwards  we  made  her  acquaintance.  She  was  verging  upon  fifty,  but 
looked  much  younger.  Her  personal  appearance  then  might  be  described  by  the 
single  word  "  sonsie."  Her  full  bust,  upright  form,  and  stately  carriage  were  indi- 
cative of  that  rare  privilege  of  age, 

"  Life  to  the  last  enjoyed." 

Despite  somewhat  of  severity  in  her  quick  blue  eye,  her  manner  and  appearance 
were  extremely  prepossessing.  There  was  a  pleasant  mixture  of  simplicity  and 
coquetry  in  the  folds  of  the  pure  white  kerchief  scrupulously  arranged  over  a  grey 
silk  dress  of  the  richest  fabric,  though  plainly  made,  and  entirely  without  ornament. 

*  "Thou  knowest— or  thou  ought  to  know"— she  wrote  to  Mrs.  Hall,  at  the  commencement  of  our  correspond- 
ence in  the  year  1827,  "  that  since  I  became  a  Friend  I  am  not  free  to  what  is  called  '  make  a  story,'  hut  I  will  wi-ite 
a/acS  for  thy  annual,  or  any  little  matter  of  history,  or  truth,  or  a  poem  if  thou  wishest,  but  I  must  not  write  pure 
fiction  ;  I  must  not  lye,  and  say,  '  so  and  so  occurred,'  or  '  such  and  such  a  thing  took  place,'  when  it  did  not :  dost . 
thou  understand  me  2 " 


One  of  her  Quaker  friends  describes  her  cap  as  "  of  beautiful  lawn,  and  fastened 
beneath  her  chin  with  whimpers,  which  had  small  crimped  frills."  Her  hair,  of  a 
singular  colour,  between  flaxen  and  grey,  was  worn  in  waving  folds  in  front.  It  had 
a  natural  wave,  but,  of  course,  was  never  curled.  Her  carriage  was  erect,  her  step 
firm  and  rapid,  her  manner  decided,  her  voice  low  and  sweet  in  tone,  her  smile  per- 
fect sunshine.  She  "flirted"  a  fan  with  the  ease  and  grace  of  a  Spanish  donna; 
and  if  her  bright,  inquiring,  and  restless  eyes  made  one  rather  nervous  at  a  first 
interview,  the  charm  of  her  smile,  and  the  winning  grace  of  her  nature  placed  one  at 
ease  after  a  few  minutes'  conversation.  Still,  the  incessant  sparkling  of  those  quick 
blue  eyes  told 

"  that  e'en  in  the  tranquillest  climes, 
Light  breezes  might  rufBle  the  flower  sometimes." 

When  we  met  in  after  years,  the  restless  manner  was  much  calmed.  As  the  face 
became  less  beautiful  it  grew  more  soft,  less  commanding,  but  more  lovable. 

Miss  Brightwell  thus  pictures  her: — "She  was  about  the  standard  height  of 
woman,  her  hair  was  worn  in  waving  folds  in  front,  and  behind  it  was  seen  through 
the  cap,  gathered  into  a  braid.  Its  colour  was  peculiar — between  flaxen  and  grey; 
it  was  unusually  fine  and  deHcate,  and  had  a  natural  bend  or  wave.  .  .  .  Her  eyes  were 
especially  charming :  there  was  in  them  an  ardour  mingled  with  gentleness  that  bespoke 
her  true  nature."  She  was  aged  when  Miss  Brightwell  wrote  this,  but  she  pictures 
her  also  in  youth — no  doubt  from  hearsay.  "  Her  countenance  was  animated,  bright, 
and  beaming  ;  her  eyes  soft  and  expressive,  yet  full  of  ardour ;  her  hair  abundant 
and  beautiful,  of  auburn  hue  ;  her  figure  well  formed,  her  carriage  fine,  her  hands, 
arms,  and  feet  well  shaped ;  and  all  around  and  about  her  was  the  spirit  of  youth, 
and  joy,  and  love." 

Yet,  although  a  member  of  the  Society  of  Friends,  and  bound  by  duty  to  be  sedate, 
the  old  leaven  clung  to  her  through  life — innocently  and  harmlessly ;  and  there  was 
no  sin  in  her  occasional  murmurs  of  self-reproof — "  Shall  I  ever  cease  to  enjoy  the 
pleasures  of  the  world  ?     I  fear  not." 

In  truth,  she  never  did.  And  so  her  Diary  oddly  mingles  gaities  with  gravities : 
May  meetings  with  brilliant  evenings,  labours  of  love  and  works  of  charity  with  idola- 
trous hero-worship ;  and  if  there  occur  records  of  worldly  sensations,  at  which  an 
Elder  among  the  Friends  might  shake  his  head  and  sigh,  there  are  many  such 
passages  as  these  : — "  Went  to  the  gaol — have  hopes  of  one  woman." — "  Called  to 
see  that  poor  wretched  girl  at  the  workhouse  ;  mean  to  get  the  Prayer-book  I  gave 
her  out  of  pawn." 

Mrs.  Opie  was  brought  up  as  an  "ultra-liberal."  Her  sympathies  were  with  the 
people.  They  were  often  exercised,  at  the  close  of  the  past  and  the  beginning  of  the 
present  century,  when  advocacy  of  freedom  was  a  crime,  and  there  was  peril  even  in 
free  interchange  of  thought.  But  though  a  Liberal  in  politics,  her  heart  had  room 
enough  for  all  humankind  :  her  bounty  was  large,  and  her  charities  were  incessant. 
Among  other  merciful  projects,  in  conjunction  with  Mrs.  Fry — another  of  the  earth's 
excellents — she  conceived  the  idea  of  reforming  the  internal  management  of  hospitals 
and  infirmaries.     In  1829  a  project  had  been  actually  "  set  on  foot — an  institution 


i 


for  the  purpose  of  educating  a  better  class  of  persons  as  nurses  for  the  poor,"  a  project 
much  encouraged  by  Southey,  who  considered  that  "  nothing  in  the  system  need  be 
adopted  at  variance  with  the  feehngs  of  a  Protestant  country," 

It  was  in  reference  to  his  belief  in  the  peculiar  fitness  of  Amelia  Opie  to  carry 
out  this  work  of  wisdom  and  mercy  that  Southey  thus  wrote  of  her  in  his 
"  Colloquies  :  " — ■ 

"  One  who  has  been  the  liveliest  of  the  lively,  the  gayest  of  the  gay ;  admired  for  her  talents 
hy  those  who  knew  her  only  in  her  writings,  and  esteemed  for  her  worth  by  those  who  were 
acquainted  with  her  in  the  relations  of  private  life  ;  one  who,  having  grown  np  in  the  laxest  sect 
of  semi-Christians,  felt  the  necessity  of  vital  religion  while  attending  upon  her  father  during  the 
long  and  painful  infirmities  of  his  old  age,  and  who  has  now  joined  the  lively  faith  for  which  her 
soul  thirsted ;  not  losing,  in  the  change,  her  warmth  of  heart  and  cheerfulness  of  spirit,  nor 
gaining  by  it  any  increase  of  sincerity  and  frankness  ;  for  with  these  Nature  had  endowed  her, 
and  society,  even  that  of  the  great,  had  not  corrupted  them."* 

So  far  back  as  the  year  1818,  Mrs.  Hall  was  acquainted  with  Mrs.  Fry,  of  whom 
it  may  be  emphatically  said,  "  her  works  do  follow  her ;"  and  Mrs.  Hall  suppHes  me 
with  this  Memory  of  that  estimable  woman  : — 

It  was  my  privilege  to  accompany  her  more  than  once  to  Newgate,  some  years, 
however,  after  she  had  commenced  her  herculean  and  most  merciful  task  of  reforming 
that  prison.  I  first  met  her  at  the  house  of  WiUiam  Wilberforce,  to  whom  humanity 
still  owes  a  large  debt,  although  it  has  been,  in  part,  paid  by  the  abolition  of  negro 
slavery  in  all  lands  where  the  Anglo-Saxon  tongue  is  spoken.  The  great  philan- 
thropist was  then  living  at  Brompton,  and  after  a  lapse  of  so  many  years,  I  recall  my 
sensations  of  intense  happiness  when,  in  my  dawn  of  youth,  conversing  with  that 
venerable  man. 

Newgate,  when  first  visited  by  Elizabeth  Fry,  was  a  positive  Aceldama.  The 
women  were  all  in  rags,  no  care  of  any  kind  having  been  given  to  their  clothing,  and 
almost  as  little  to  their  food.  They  slept  without  bedding  on  the  floor  of  their  prison, 
the  boards  raised  in  parts  to  furnish  a  sort  of  pillow.  With  the  proceeds  of  their 
noisy  beggary  from  occasional  visitors  they  purchased  spirits  at  a  tap-room  within  the 
gaol ;  and  the  ear  was  constantly  outraged  by  frightfully  revolting  language.  Though 
military  sentinels  were  placed  at  intervals,  even  the  governor  entered  their  part  of 
the  prison  with  misgiving  and  reluctance.  A  picture  of  very  great  merit,  illustrating 
this  incident  in  the  hfe  of  Mrs.  Fry,  by  Mrs.  E.  M.  Ward,  graced  the  Exhibition  of 
the  Royal  Academy  in  1867. 

Things  had,  however,  changed  for  the  better  when  I  accompanied  Mrs.  Fry  to 
Newgate.  She  had  been  at  her  work — and  not  in  vain — during  five  years.  My 
companion  was  the  Rev.  Robert  Walsh,  one  of  the  most  dear  and  valued  friends  of 
my  girlhood — of  my  womanhood  also.  His  children  and  his  grandchildren  are  of  my 
best  and  most-beloved  friends  to-day. f 

*  In  another,  of  Ms  letters  Southey  says  of  Amelia  Opie  :— "  I  like  her  in  spite  of  her  Quakerism,  nay,  perhaps 
the  better  for  it ;  for  it  must  be  always  remembered  in  what  sect  she  was  bred  up,  among  what  persons  she  had 
lived,  and  that  religion  was  never  presented  to  her  in  a  serious  form  until  she  saw  it  in  drab." 

+  Dr.  Walsh  was,  during  many  years,  Chaplain  to  the  Embassies  at  Constantinople  and  at  Rio,  and  his  works 
on  Turkey  and  Brazil  retained  places  in  aU  libraries.  He  died  Rector  of  Finglas,  near  Dubhn,  honoured  and  beloved : 
of  him  I  shall  have  more  to  say  before  I  close  these  "Memories,"  and  something  of  his  son,  the  late  Eight  Hon. 
John  Edward  Walsh,  Master  of  the  BoUs,  our  very  dear  friend,  who  died  in  Paris  in  1869. 


MEMORIES. 


1 


But  of  Elizabeth  Fry.  I  do  not  remember  how  it  came  about ;  yet  I  can  see 
myself  now  clasping  her  hand  between  mine,  and  entreating  to  be  taken  with  her 
once,  only  once  ;  and  I  can  recall  the  light  and  beauty  that  illumined  her  features  — 
the  gentle  smile  and  look  of  kindness— as  she  moved  back  the  hair  from  my  moist 
eyes,  and  said,  "  Thy  mother  will  trust  thee  with  me  and  thy  friend  the  doctor. 
Her  heart  is  urged  to  this  for  good  ;  do  not  check  the  natural  impulse  of  thy  child, 
friend,"  addressing  my  dear  mother  ;  "  better  for  thy  future  in  her  to  hear  her  plead- 
ing to  visit  those  with  whom  the  Lord  is  dealing  in  His  mercy,  than  for  thy  sanction 
to  visit  scenes  of  pleasure,  where  there  can  be  gathered  no  fruit  for  hereafter."  I 
felt  the  words  as  a  reproof ;  for  only  the  night  before  I  had  seen  the  elder  Kean  play 
Macbeth.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  been  at  a  theatre,  and  the  consequent  excite-" 
ment  had  kept  me  awake  all  night.  Her  words  made  me  thoughtful.  I  remember 
removing  the  rosette  from  my  bonnet,  and  putting  on  my  gravest-coloured  dress,  to 
accompany  Elizabeth  Fry  to  Newgate. 

Hannah  More,  speaking  of  this  heroic  "Friend,"  pictured  her  well: — "I  thought 
of  her  as  of  some  grand  woman  out  of  the  Old  Testament — as  Deborah  judging 
Israel  under  the  palm-tree." 

When  in  repose,  there  was  an  almost  unapproachable  dignity  in  Mrs.  Fry.  Her 
tall  figure,  the  lofty  manner  in  which  her  head  was  placed  on  its  womanly  pedestal, 
her  regal  form,  and  the  calmness  of  her  firm,  yet  sweet  voice,  without  an  effort  on 
her  part,  commanded  attention.  You  felt  her  power  the  moment  you  entered  her 
presence ;  but  when  she  read  and  expounded  the  Scripture,  and  above  all,  when  she 
prayed,  the  grandeur  of  the  woman  became  the  fervour  of  the  saint.  In  person  she 
was  not  unlike  Amelia  Opie,  though  obviously  of  a  "  stronger  "  nature,  and  though 
by  no  means  unfeminine,  more  masculine  in  form. 

When  I  passed  with  her  and  Dr.  Walsh,  and  a  lady  whose  name  I  have  forgotten, 
into  the  dreaded  prison,  and  heard  the  loud  gratings  of  the  rattling  keys  in  the  locks, 
and  the  withdrawing  and  drawing  of  the  bolts,  and  felt  the  gloom  and  damp  of  the 
walls,  and  heard  my  friends  speak  with  bated  breath,  and  then  saw  the  door  open, 
and  a  number  of  women — stained  by  "the  trail  of  the  serpent  " — I  should  have  been 
glad  to  have  been  anywhere  but  where  I  was.  "Wilt  thou  go  back,  young  friend  ?" 
whispered  a  kind  voice.  I  looked  up  to  her  sweet  face,  and  laying  my  hand  in  hers, 
felt  strengthened  by  her  strength.  A  Bible  was  on  the  table,  and  a  chair  and  hassock 
were  beside  it ;  but,  before  she  read  or  prayed,  Mrs.  Fry  went  to  each  individually. 
Not  one  word  of  reproof  fell  from  her  to  any,  though  several  Avere  loud  in  their  com- 
plaints against  one  particular  woman,  who  really  locked  a  fiend.  She  took  that 
woman  apart,  reasoned  with  her,  soothed  her,  laid  her  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and 
the  hard,  stubborn,  cruel  (for  I  learned  afterwards  how  cruel  she  had  been)  nature 
relented,  and  tears  coursed  each  other  down  her  cheeks.  "  She  promises  to  behave 
better,"  she  said,  "  and  thou  wilt  not  taunt  her,  but  help  her  to  be  good.  And  He 
will  help  her  who  bears  with  us  all !  "  She  had  an  almost  miraculous  gift  of  reading 
the  inner  nature  of  all  with  whom  she  came  in  contact.  She  seemed  to  show  a 
peculiar  interest  in  each  ;  while  each  felt  as  if  the  mission  was  specially  to  her.  I 
shall  never  forget  the  wild  scream  of  delight  of  a  young  creature  who  fell  at  her  feet 


i 


AMELIA    OPIE.  173 


to  whom  slie  had  said,  "  I  have  seen  thy  child."  One  of  the  women  told  the  girl 
that  if  she  was  not  quiet,  she  could  not  remain  for  the  prayer.  I  remember  even 
now  how  she  clenched  her  hands  on  her  bosom,  to  still  its  heavings,  and  how  she 
kept  in  her  sobs,  while  her  bright  glittering  eyes  followed  every  movement  of  Mrs. 
Fry,  when  she  added,  "  Thy  child  is  well,  and  has  cut  two  teeth,  and  thy  mother 
seems  so  fond  of  her  !  " 

This  preparation  for  prayer  and  teaching  occupied  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes,  and 
eager  and  even  noisy  as  some  of  those  poor  women  had  previously  been,  when 
Mrs.  Fry  sat  down  and  opened  The  Bible,  the  only  sound  that  was  heard  was  the 
suppressed  sobs  of  the  girl  to  whom  Mrs.  Fry  had  spoken  of  her  child.  There  was 
something  very  appalling  in  the  instantaneous  silence  of  these  dangerous  women, 
subdued  in  a  moment  into  the  stillness  which  so  frequently  precedes  a  thunder-storm. 
The  calm  and  silvery  tones  of  the  reader's  earnest  voice  fell  like  oil  on  troubled 
waters.  Gradually  the  expressions  of  the  various  faces  changed  into  what  may 
well  be  called  reverential  attention.  Her  prayer  I  remember  thinking  very  short,  but 
comprehensive ;  its  entreaties  were  so  earnest,  so  anxious,  so  fervent,  that  few  were 
there  whose  moistened  eyes  did  not  bear  testimony  to  its  influence.  She  seemed  to 
know  and  feel  every  individual  case,  to  share  every  individual  sorrow,  and  to  have  a 
ready  balm  for  every  separate  wound.  I  can  see  the  radiance  of  her  face  through 
the  long  lapse  of  years,  and  recall  the  "  winningness  "  of  her  voice,  so  clear  and 
penetrating,  yet  so  tender.  When  she  paused — remaining  silent  a  while — and  then 
rose  to  withdraw,  the  women  did  not  crowd  towards  her,  as  on  her  first  entrance, 
but  continued  hushed,  and  gathered  together ;  indeed,  several  were  too  over- 
powered for  words ;  but  they  gazed  on  her  as  if  she  were  an  angel,  and  was 
she  not  ? 

It  was  my  privilege  to  repeat  my  visit.  The  second  was  but  a  repetition  of  the 
first — a  few  new  faces,  and  some  of  the  old  ones  gone  ;  among  them  the  girl  whose 
child  Mrs.  Fry  had  taken  under  her  own  care.  The  mother  had  been  sent  over  seas, 
for  a  crime  that  would  now  be  atoned  for  by  a  few  weeks'  incarceration. 

Amid  the  admirably-performed  duties  of  domestic  life,  followed,  as  years  advanced, 
by  trials  that  the  world  calls  "  bitter,"  that  holy  woman  never  wavered  from  her  holy 
mission ;  removing  with  marvellous  patience  the  chains  of  mind  as  well  as  of  body, 
that  weighed  so  heavily  upon  the  human  race,  and  teaching  the  liberty  that  only  the 
Christian  appreciates,  values,  or  enjoys. 

Our  most  interesting  intercourse  with  Amelia  Opie  occurred  in  Paris,  in  February, 
1831,  not  long  after  the  so-called  "three  glorious  days."  We  had  met  and  chatted 
with  her  at  the  receptions  of  the  Baron  Cuvier,  where,  among  the  philosophers,  she 
was  staid  and  stately. 

And  the  Baron  Cuvier  is  a  rare  Memory.  His  thick  and  somewhat  stubbed  form ; 
his  massive  head  containing  the  largest  quantity  of  brain  ever  allotted  to  a  single 
human  being ;  his  broad  and  high  forehead ;  his  features  far  more  German  than 
French ;  his  manner  sedate  almost  to  severity :  such  is  the  picture  I  recall  of  the 


174  MEMORIES. 

marvellous  man,  the  parent  of  many  great  men  wlio  have  opened  to  us  the  portals  of 
New  Worlds.* 

This  is  Mrs,  Hall's  Memory  of  Amelia  Opie  at  the  Baron  Cuvier's  : — "In  Paris, 
Mrs.  Opie  was  one  of  the  lights  of  the  liberal  and  intellectual,  as  well  as  of  the 
legitimate  and  aristocratic,  soirees.  One  evening  we  met  her  in  the  circle  at  the 
Baron  Cuvier's,  where  the  Bourbonists  were  certain  to  congregate,  and  where  the 
Baron's  magnificent  head  '  stood  out '  like  the  head  of  Imperial  Jove.  At  one 
moment  she  was  discussing  some  point  of  natural  history  with  the  great  naturalist ; 
the  next,  talking  over  the  affairs  of  America  with  Fenimore  Cooper,  who,  however 
much  he  disliked  England,  was  always  kindly  and  courteous  to  the  English  in  Paris ; 
the  next,  explaining  in  very  good  English-French  to  some  sentimental  girl,  '  who 
craved  her  blessing,  and  called  her  mere,'  that  she  never  was  and  never  would  be  a 
nun ;  and  that  she  belonged  to  no  such  laborious,  useful,  or  self-denying  order  as  the 
Soeurs  de  Charite  ;  and  at  the  close  of  the  evening,  when,  in  compliment  to  the 
English  present,  a  table  was  covered  with  a  white  cloth,  and  tea  was  made  and 
kindly  poured  out  by  Madame  Cuvier's  daughter,  Mrs.  Opie  was  certainly  one  of  the 
pillars  of  the  tea-table,  laughing  and  listening  (she  never  could  have  been  so  univer- 
sally popular  had  she  not  been  a  good  listener),  and  being  to  perfection  the  elderly 
English  lady,  tinged  with  the  softest  Hue,  and  vivified  by  the  graceful  influence  of 
Parisian  society." 

But  one  memorable  evening  we  had  the  honour  of  passing  in  the  salons  of  General 
Lafayette — the  venerable  soldier  whose  singular  career  of  glory  was  then  drawing  to 
a  close.  The  occasion  was  eventful :  there  were  present  many  young  Poles.  The 
fatal  struggle  was  then  commencing  in  Poland ;  they  were  on  the  eve  of  departure, 
and  had  come  to  bid  the  aged  hero  adieu,  and  receive  his  blessing.  It  was  touching 
in  the  extreme  to  see  the  old  man  kissing  the  cheek  of  each  young  soldier  as  he 
advanced,  place  a  hand  upon  his  head,  and  give  the  blessing  that  was  asked  for. 

This  is  Mrs.  Hall's  recollection  of  the  evening  at  Lafayette's  : — "  The  gathering 
at  Lafayette's  is  never  to  be  forgotten.  The  General  was  a  most  remarkable  and 
most  deeply  interesting  man ;  he  was  at  that  time  (in  1831)  worn  down,  with  much 
of  his  fire  quenched,  resembling  rather  a  patriarch  than  a  soldier  ;  yet  he  had  a  short 
time  previously  given  a  crown  to  Louis  Philippe.  The  rooms  were  crowded,  and  in 
the  crowd  was  Fenimore  Cooper,  more  at  home  with  the  Kepublicans,  warmer  and 
more  genial  than  he  had  been  at  Cuvier's  on  the  previous  evening,  where  the  society 
was  courtly  and  constrained.  All  the  remarkable  men  of  that  party  were  there,  and  all 
seemed  agitated  about  something  going  forward,  which  at  first  was  incomprehensible 
to  us.  Lafayette  stood  in  an  inner  room,  conversing  with  a  staff  of  old  friends,  who 
appeared  privileged  to  crowd  around  him ;  but  every  five  or  six  minutes  the  circle 

*  These  lines,  descriptive  of  Cuvier,  were  written  by  Mrs.  Opie,  after  his  death  : — 

"  'Twas  sweet  that  voice  of  melody  to  hear, 
Distinct,  sonorous,  stealing  on  the  ear  ; 
.    ~  And  watch  to  mark  some  sudden  gesture  throw 

^   The  hair  aside,  that  veiled  that  wondrous  brow,— 
That  brow,  the  throne  of  genius  and  of  thought. 
And  mind,  which  all  the  depths  of  science  sought." 


AMELIA    OPIE.  175 


opened,  a  youth  in  a  foreign  uniform  approached,  the  old  man  pressed  his  hands, 
looked  earnestly  and  affectionately  in  his  face,  addressed  to  him  a  few  words  in  a  low 
tone,  and  then  the  youth  bent  and  kissed  his  hand,  some  even  knelt  and  craved  his 
blessing,  and  he  dismissed  them  with  a  sentence,  '  Ah,  le  bon  Dieu  vous  benit,  mon 
fils  ! '  or,  '  AUez  a  la  gloire  !  '  or,  *  Vive  la  patrie  !  '  One,  a  fine  handsome  fellow, 
more  than  six  feet  high,  the  Greneral  embraced  and  kissed  ;  tears  rushed  to  his  eyes, 
and  twice  when  the  young  man  knelt  he  raised  him  and  pressed  him  to  his  heart. 
Mrs.  Opie  wept,  as  indeed  many  did,  who  hardly  comprehended  the  cause  either  of 
the  reception  or  the  parting,  but  we  soon  learned  that  the  youth  was  the  son  of  a 
distinguished  Polish  ofl&cer,  who  had  fallen  in  defending  his  country,  and  that  he  was 
going  to  Poland  with  his  countrymen  to  renew  the  struggle — that  all  those  who 
so  craved  the  blessing  of  Lafayette  were  Poles,  all  resolved  to  conquer  or  die,  all 
destined  to  leave  Paris  at  the  dawn  of  the  following  day ;  and  they  did  so,  and  in 
six  weeks  all  those  young  hearts  had  ceased  to  beat — 

'  Their  last-flght  fought— 
Their  deeds  of  glory  done.' 

Indeed,  the  meeting  was  a  singularly  solemn  one  for  Paris  ;  even  when  the  little 
ceremony  was  concluded,  there  was  so  much  serious  matter  connected  with  Poland  to 
think  of  and  talk  about,  so  much  anxiety  as  to  the  result  of  the  struggle,  the  young 
hraxes  excited  so  much  interest,  and  Lafayette  appeared  so  overpowered,  that  we 
withdrew  earlier  than  usual,  leaving  Mrs.  Opie  walkmg  through  the  rooms  in  earnest 
and  animated  conversation. 

"  Suddenly  we  were  somewhat  startled  by  a  buzz  and  an  audible  whisper ;  we 
could  only  make  out  the  words  Saur  de  Charite,  and  walking  with  formal  state  up  the 
room,  we  saw  Amelia  Opie,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  somewhat  celebrated  Irishman 
(O'Gorman  Mahon),  six  feet  high,  and  large  in  proportion,  with  peculiarities  of  dress 
that  enhanced  the  contrast  between  him  and  his  companion.  She  was  habited  as 
usual  in  her  plain  grey  silk,  and  Quaker  cap  '  fastened  beneath  her  chin  with  whimpers 
which  had  small  crimped  frills.'  No  wonder  such  a  vision  of  simplicity  and  purity 
should  have  startled  gay  Parisian  dames,  few  or  none  of  whom  had  the  least  idea  of 
the  nature  of  the  costume ;  but  the  good  old  General  selected  her  from  a  host  of 
worshippers,  and  seemed  jealous  lest  a  rival  should  steal  the  fascinating  Quaker  from 
his  side." 

To  Lafayette  and  his  family  Mrs.  Opie  was  greatly  attached.  She  described  him 
as  "  a  delightful,  lovable  man,"  "  a  handsome,  blooming  man  of  seventy,"  "humble, 
simple,  and  blushing  at  his  own  praises  ;"  and  in  allusion  to  her  appearance  at  one 
of  his  "receptions,"  she  writes  : — "I  sighed  when  I  looked  at  my  simple  Quaker 
dress,  considered  whether  I  had  any  business  there,  and  slunk  into  a  corner."  But 
that  was  when  the  General  "received"  in  state  at  the  Etat  Major  of  the  Garde 
Nationale,  and  not  when  she  was  "at  home"  with  him  and  his  family  at  "The 
Grange," 

It  was  at  that  time  she  sat  to  the  sculptor  David  for  the  medal  I  have  engraved. 
David  was  a  small,  undignified  man,  much  pock-marked.     He  was  to  the  last  a  fierce 


176 


MEMORIES, 


I 


Republican ;  as  fierce,  though  not  as  ruthless,  as  his  relative  and  namesake,  the  painter. 
I  saw  much  of  him  during  several  after-visits  to  Paris. 

Mrs.  Opie  occupied  an  entresol  in  the  Hotel  de  la  Paix,  and  a  servant,  v^^ith  some- 
thing of  the  appearance  of  a  sobered-down  soldier  in  dress  and  deportment,  waited  in 
the  anteroom  of  the  Quaker  dame  to  announce  her  visitors.  Singularly  enough,  Mrs. 
Opie  was  never  more  at  home  than  in  Paris,  where  her  dress  in  the  streets,  as  well 
as  at  the  various  reunions,  attracted  much  attention  and  curiosity,  the  Parisians 
believing  she  belonged  to  some  religious  order  akin  to  the  Sisters  of  Charity. 


THE  DWELLING   OF   AMELIA  OPIE    AT  NOUWICH. 


The  last  time  Mrs.  Opie  visited  London  was  to  see  the  Great  Exhibition  in  1851. 
There  she  was  wheeled  about  in  a  garden  chair.  She  retained  much  of  her  original 
freshness  of  form  and  mind,  and  was  cheerful  and  "  chatty."  In  the  brief  conversation 
I  had  with  her,  surrounded  as  she  was  by  friends  who  loved,  and  strangers  who  vene- 
rated, her,  she  recalled  our  pleasant  intercourse  in  Paris,  murmuring  more  than  once, 
"  How  many  of  them  have  gone  before  !  " 

In  the  autumn  of  that  year  I  chanced  to  be  in  Norwich,  and  there  my  last  visit  to 
her  was  paid  at  her  residence  in  the  Castle  Meadow.    The  house  exists  no  longer,  but 


d 


AMELIA    OPIE. 


1/7 


a  picture  of  it  has  been  preserved  by  her  friend,  Lucy  Brightwell,  and  I  have  engraved 
it.     Plain  house  though  it  was,  and  fitly  so,  its  memory  is  hallowed. 

The  room  was  hung  with  portraits,  principally  of  her  own  drawing  ;  *  flowers  she 
was  never  without.  She  was  delighted  with  its  cheerful  outlook,  and  described  it  as 
a  "  pleasant  cradle  for  reposing  age."  From  her  windows  she  saw  "  noble  trees,  the 
castle  turrets,"  and  "  the  woods  and  rising  grounds  of  Thorpe."  She  was  thankful 
that  "the  lines  had  fallen  to  her  in  pleasant  places."  There,  venerated  and  loved, 
she  dwelt  from  1848  to  her  death. 


AMELIA   OPIE's   SITTING-ROOM  AT  NORWICH.' 

She  was  at  that  time  very  lame,  yet  the  courtesy  of  her  nature  was  manifested  in 
an  effort  to  rise  and  give  me  a  cordial  welcome,  and  we  passed  an  hour  chatting 
pleasantly  and  cheerfully  of  gone-by  people  and  times. 

Her  society  was  eagerly  sought  for  by  the  most  enlightened  persons  of  the  age : 
to  name  her  friends  would  be  but  to  catalogue  the  most  remarkable  of  those  who  are 
interwoven  with  the  history  of  our  times.     She  was  earnestly  and  sincerely  philan- 


»  "It  was  her  custom,  from  a  very  early  period,  to  take  profile  Ukenesses,  in  pencil,  of  those  who  visited  her  : 
several  hundreds  of  these  sketches  were  preserved  in  books  and  folios." 


tliropic ;  her  name  was  not  frequently  seen  in  the  list  of  subscribers  to  public 
charities ;  but  when  a  tale  of  want  or  sorrow  was  told  to  Mrs.  Opie,  tears  rapidly 
twinkled  in  her  blue  eyes,  and  gradually  those  pretty  hands,  which  were  demurely 
folded  Quaker-fashion,  would  unclasp,  and  presently  the  right  one  found  its  way 
through  the  ample  folds  of  her  dress  to  her  purse,  from  which  she  gave  with  frank 
liberality. 

She  described  her  dwelling  in  a  letter  written  to  Mrs.  Hall,  dated  8th  Month  4, 
1851 :— 

"  T  am  glad  Mr.  Hall  liked  my  residence.  I  had  long  wished  for  it.  The  view  is  a  constant 
delight  to  me.  My  rooms  are  rather  too  small,  but  my  sitting-rooms  and  chamber  being 
en  suite,  they  suit  a  lame  body  as  I  now  am ;  and  below  I  have  three  parlours,  two  kitchens,  and 
a  prett)^  little  garden — for  a  town.  I  have  a  second  floor  and  an  attic  which  commands  Norwich 
and  the  adjacent  country  ;  but  this  is  thrown  away  on  me.  I  have  seen  it,  and  that  is  enous>;h. 
The  noble  trees,  flowering  shrubs,  and  fine  acacias  round  the  castle  keep,  into  which  I  am  daily 
looking,  have  to  me  an  unfailing  charm.  The  road  runs  under  my  window  ;  and  I  have  seen 
many  groups  of  le  tiers  etat  hastening  along,  evidently  to  the  Monday  cheap  train  to  London.  It 
is  a  pleasant  sight.  The  wind  is  rather  high,  and  the  trees  I  have  told  thee  of  are  waving  and 
bending  their  light  branches  so  gracefully  and  invitingly  before  me,  that  I  could  almost  fancy 
they  were  bowing  to  me,  and  get  up  and  return  the  compliment,  however  gauchely.  After  this 
extraordinary  flight  of  fancy,  it  is  necessary  that  I  should  pause  a  while  to  recover  it ;  so  farewell ! 
Thy  loving  friend,  "Amelia  Opie." 

It  was  obvious,  however,  that  the  time  of  her  removal  was  drawing  on.  The 
death  of  her  dear  friend,  Joseph  John  Glurney,  one  of  "the  excellent  of  the  earth," 
in  1847 — of  Dr.  Chalmers  soon  afterwards — and  of  other  beloved  friends  and  relatives, 
affected  her  much,  though  she  bore  her  losses  resignedly,  if  not  cheerfully,  bowing  in 
submission  to  the  Divine  Will,  remembering  her  favourite  text,  "  Shall  not  the  Judge 
of  all  the  earth  do  right  ?  " 

Age  and  infirmities  had  been  creeping  on  ;  the  comforting  influence  of  the  good 
Bishop  Stanley  was  continually  with  her  ;  numerous  friends  thronged  around  her ; 
she  still  manifested  interest  in  all  they  said  and  did.  But,  in  1849,  Bishop  Stanley 
died.  She  loved  that  good  man  very  dearly,  and  his  death  was  accepted  as  a  warning 
that  her  own  was  near  at  hand.  Writing  to  Mrs.  Hall,  in  1851,  she  says, — speaking 
of  the  good  man's  grave, — "It  is  covered  by  a  large  black  marble,  with  a  deep 
border  round  of  variegated  marble,  the  colours  black  and  grey.  He  lies  in  the  middle 
of  the  great  aisle  of  the  cathedral,  and  when  the  painted-glass  window,  as  a  memorial  • 
to  his  memory,  is  finished,  and  placed  over  the  great  western  gates  of  entrance,  it  is 
thought  that  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  on  which  he  loved  to  gaze,  will  shine  upon 
the  stone  that  covers  his  '  dear  remains.'  "  * 

She  suffered  much,  yet  was  cheerful,  buoyant,  and  happy  to  the  last ;  and  at 
midnight  on  the  2nd  of  December,  1853,  she  breathed  her  last,  murmuring,  "All  is 
peace  ! — all  is  mercy  !  "  And  so  she  joined  the  good  and  holy  spirits — her  friends  in 
life  and  after  life — who  had  been  waiting  to  give  her  welcome. 

The  good  works  she  did  on  earth  she  considered  and  has  characterised  thus : — 
"  They  are  good  only  as  the  evidence  of  faith." 

*  Another  of  her  friends  was  Archdeacon  Wrangham.  I  knew  him  well :  he  was  a  tall,  slight  man,  of  exceed- 
ingly gentle  and  attractive  manners,  with  the  ease  and  grace  and  persuasive  eloquence  of  a  Christian  ge.fleman. 
He  had  a  proneness  to  translate  favourite  poems  into  Latin  verse,  and  usually  had  a  copy  or  two  in  his  pocket  to 
present  as  a  memorial,  where  he  had  reason  to  think  the  gilt  would  be  acceptable. 


AMELIA    OPIE. 


179 


She  died  in  the  full  possession  of  those  clear  and  admirable  faculties  which 
rendered  her  one  of  the  most  remarkable  women  of  her  time,  and  it  is  no  small 
evidence  of  her  qualities — of  the  heart  as  well  as  of  the  head — to  say  that  all  the 
young  who  knew  her  regretted  her  as  they  would  a  chosen  friend  or  companion. 
When  she  passed  away  from  earth  Norwich  lost  one  of  its  attractions,  for  many  made 
pilgrimage  (especially  from  the  New  World)  to  the  shrine  of  this  brilliant  but  true- 
hearted  woman,  whose  enthusiasm  overthrew  time,  and  outlived  the  decay  of  life  itself- 


THE   BUElAL-PIiACE   OF   AMELIA   OPIE. 


Mrs.  Opie's  nature  was  most  essentially  feminine.  It  was  feminine  in  its  gifts — 
in  its  graces — in  its  strength — in  its  weakness — in  its  generosity.  She  was  without  a 
particle  of  jealousy,  and  her  colour  rose  and  her  eyes  sparkled  while  she  bestowed 
warm  and  earnest,  if  not  always  critically  judicious,  praise  on  what  she  admired.  She 
would  have  made  a  heroine,  and  died  in  a  cause  she  believed  right  and  righteous,  but 
she  never  could  have  been  guilty  of  the  vulgarity  of  modern  "  Bloomerism  ; "  she 
honoured  her  sex  and  its  peculiar  virtues  too  much  to  wish  it  unsexed.  The  sensitive 
delicacy  of  her  mind  was  evident,  not  only  in  her  writings,  but  in  her  words  and 
deportnaent,  and  it  was  impossible  for  the  young  to  have  a  better  guide  or  a  more 
excellent  example.     Her  manners  would  have  graced  a  court,  and  not  encumbered  a 

N   2 


cottage.  Her  lessons  continue  to  be  of  value ;  they  were  not  written  merely  for  a 
time  or  for  a  passing  purpose. 

She  was  interred  in  the  Friends'  burying-ground  at  the  Gildenscroft,  in  the  same 
grave  with  her  father,  and  in  association  with  so  many  of  her  beloved  friends.  At 
the  extreme  left  side  of  the  ground,  beneath  an  elm-tree  that  overshadows  the  wall,  is 
a  small  slab  bearing  the  names  of  James  Alderson  and  Amelia  Opie,  with  the  dates  of 
their  births  and  deaths.* 

Dear  Amelia  Opie  !  her  nature  was  essentially  feminine  in  its  gifts,  its  graces,  its 
goodness,  its  weakness,  and  its  vanities  ;  truthful,  generous,  and  considerate  ever.  Pure 
of  heart  and  upright  in  walk  and  conversation,  her  memory  is  without  a  blot ;  her 
precepts  are  those  of  Virtue  ;  and  her  example  was  their  illustration  and  their  comment. 

"  Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet  and  blossom  in  the  dust." 


BEEISTAED   BAETON. 


It  maybe  "fitting"  to  associate  with  that  of  Amelia  Opie  the  name  of  Bernard 
Barton,  merely,  however,  because  he  also  was  of  the  Society  of  Friends.  As  dear 
Amelia  Opie  felt  bound  to  eschew  fiction  after  she  donned  the  sober  garb  of  drab  or 
grey,  so  the  Quaker-poet  had  serious  misgivings  whether  it  might  not  be  a  crime  in 
one  of  his  "persuasion"  to  write,  or  at  all  events  to  print,  poetry.  He  consulted 
Southey,  who  could  see  in  it  no  wrong  at  alLf  He  referred  his  scruples  to  Byron, 
who  bade  him  continue  to  court  the  Muses.  Of  others  he  asked  advice,  but  followed 
his  own  natural  bias,  being  "  inclined  to  think  that  poetry  might  be  composed  with 
strict  consistency,  and  by  no  means  in  opposition  to  our  code,  and  yet  not  be  exclu- 
sively religious."  Some  of  the  "  Friends,"  however,  thought  otherwise.  By  one  of 
them  he  was  severely  reproved  for  using  the  word  "  November"  in  poetry. 

He  sought  the  counsels  of  friends  concerning  his  project  of  abandoning  the  desk 
and  trusting  for  bread  to  the  issue  of  his  pen.  Among  others,  Charles  Lamb  quoted 
his  own  example,  that  "desks  were  not  deadly" — that  anything  was  better  than 
dependence  on  publishers ;  while  Byron  remmded  him  of  the  common  lot  of  those 
whose  sole  dependence  was  literature  : — 

"  Toil,  envy,  want,  the  patron,  and  the  jail." 

The  warning  of  Charles  Lamb  to  Bernard  Barton  may  serve  its  sacred  purpose 

now  as  it  did  then ;  for  there  are  many  who  foolishly  fancy  a  career  of  letters  must 

be  a  successful  one.     These  are  the  words  of  the  gentle  essayist : — 

"Throw  yourself  on  the  world  without  any  rational  plan  of  Eiipport,  but  Avhat  the  chance 
employ  of  booksellers  would  afford  you  I ! !     Throw  yourself  rather  fi'om  the  steep  Tarpeian  rock — 

*  These  are  the  words  of  her  affectionate  biographer,  Lucy  Brightwell,  in  a  little  memoir  published  by  the 
Religious  Tract  Society  : — "  Should  any  wanderer,  at  some  future  day,  desii'e  to  visit  the  grave  of  Amelia  Opie,  he 
wUl  find  at  the  extreme  left  of  the  ground,  beneath  an  elm-tree  that  overshadows  the  wall,  a  small  slab,  bearing  the 
names  of  James  Alderson  and  Amelia  Opie,  with  their  ages  and  the  dates  of  Iheir  deaths." 

+  Bernard  Barton  wrote  to  Southey,  in  1820,  to  ask  whether  the  Society  of  Friends  was  liiely  to  be  offended  at 
his  publishing  a  volume  of  poems — a  question  which  Southey  said  he  could  no  more  answer  than  whether  a  ship 
setting  sail  for  India  should  make  a  prosperous  voyage,  but  adding,  that  if  poetiy  were  unlawful,  the  Bible  itseli 
must  be  a  prohibited  book. 


4 


slap,  dash,  headlong  upon  iron  spikes Come  not  within  their  grasp.  I  have  known  many- 
authors  want  for  bread,  some  repining,  others  enjoying  the  blest  security  of  a  counting-house,  all 
agreeing  they  had  rather  have  been  tailors,  weavers — what  not  ?  than  the  things  they  were.  I 
have  known  some  starved,  some  go  mad,  one  dear  friend  '  dying  in  a  workhouse.'  Oh,  you  know 
not — may  you  never  know  ! — the  miseries  of  subsisting  by  authorship  !" 

So  worthy  Bernard  Barton — having  first  tried  trade  and  not  liking  it — remained 
a  banker's  clerk  at  Woodbridge,  a  position  which  he  wisely  kept  during  forty  years, 
not  quite  contented  with  his  lot,  but  cheerful,  easy,  and  comparatively  happy,  in 

"  Health,  peace,  and  competence." 

He  was,  however,  helped  up  "  the  steep  "  by  a  subscription  among  friends  who 
saw  and  feared  no  evil  in  the  poet's  messages  from  the  Muses.  It  enabled  him  to 
buy  the  house  in  which  he  lived — a  house  where  had  dwelt  the  mother  of  the  wife 
he  lost  in  giving  birth  to  an  only  child.  It  was  old-fashioned,  and  so  suited  the  poet 
well,  and  was  wildly  overgrown  with  trees,  one  of  which,  a  tall  poplar,  "  mother 
stuck  there  a  twig  "  when  he  brought  her  home  a  bride.  Let  us  hope  that  it  may  be 
growing  still — a  poet's  memory  and  monument. 

In  advanced  age  his  circumstances  were  rendered  comfortable  by  an  annual 
pension  of  £100,  obtained  for  him  by  Sir  Kobert  Peel. 

I  recall  him  in  his  broad-brim  hat  and  Quaker-cut  coat  as  he  walked  the  streets 
of  London ;  a  tall  man,  with  a  complexion  gathered,  not  from  the  counting-house, 
but  from  rural  walks  through  "  the  valley  of  Ferns,"  by  the  banks  of  his  "  favourite 
Deben."  His  expression  had,  I  thought,  more  of  the  keenness  of  the  man  of  busi- 
ness than  the  visionary  fancies  of  the  poet.  His  mouth  was  close  and  "  mercantile," 
but  his  eyes  were  gentle,  generous,  and  kindly.  Assuredly,  however,  he  seemed 
country-born,  country-bred,  and  with  country  manners — they  were  neither  rude  nor 
coarse.  His  daughter  is  justified  in  saying  he  had  "a  happy  frankness  of  nature," 
and  was  a  pleasant  companion,  with  a  genial  flow  of  good  spirits,  with  much  of 
the  prudence,  sound  sense,  and  "rationality"  of  the  "Friends,"  mixed  with  the 
cordiality  and  outward  as  well  as  inward  sympathy  they  are  too  frequently  educated 
to  repress. 

He  was  born  in  London  on  the  31st  of  January,  1784,  and  died  at  Woodbridge 
on  the  19th  of  February,  1849.  He  was  but  a  few  days  old  when  his  mother  died, 
but  in  his  father's  second  wife  he  had  a  friend  so  loving  and  true,  that  he  did  not 
know  she  was  not  his  own  mother  until  he  learned  the  fact  when  a  boy  at  a  boarding 
school. 

His  simple  poetry  illustrates  the  homely  joys  and  domestic  virtues  :  it  is  full  of 
feeling  and  fancy  ;  by  no  means  of  the  highest  class,  but  easily  comprehended  by  the 
mind  and  the  heart.  A  letter  I  received  from  him  in  1845  may  be  given  as  an 
illustration  of  his  character;  it  accompanied  a  little  volume  entitled  "  Household 
Verses  : " — 

"  For  the  book  thus  forwarded  to  thee  I  do  not  feel  called  upon  to  say  much.  I  expect  it  will 
be  thought  tame  and  insipid  by  many.  But  I  am  a  lover  of  the  quiet  household  virtues— can 
breathe  most  freely  in  that  purer  atmosphere  in  which  they  live,  move  and  have  their  being  ;  and 
have  felt  restrained,  not  less  by  my  taste  than  by  my  religious  creed,  from  seeking  to  gain  popu- 


larity  by  the  use  of  those  exciting  stimulants  so  much  in  vogue  of  later  years  with  the  followers  of 
the  Muses.  To  those  who  can  analyse  and  appreciate  the  deop,  still  under-current  of  thought  and 
feeling  which  home  and  every-day  life  affords,  I  do  not  think  my  subjects,  or  mode  of  treatinj? 
them,  will  be  insipid ;  others  I  can  hardly  hope  to  please,  so  if  I  must  suffer  for  my  somewhat 
unfashionable  predilections,  I  shall  have  the  comfort  of  knowing  they  are  hearty,  though  homely, 
and  sincere,  though  simple." 

His  daughter  (and  she  is  not  the  only  witness)  bears  testimony  to  "his  genuine 
piety  to  God,  good-will  to  men,  and  cheerful,  guileless  spirit  which  animated  him, 
not  only  while  writing  in  the  undisturbed  seclusion  of  the  closet,  but  through  the 
walk  and  practice  of  daily  life."  Though  town  born  and  bred,  he  loved  Nature  with 
intense  love  ;  "  earth,  and  sky,  and  water,  trees,  fields,  and  lanes ;  "  and  above  all, 
the  human  face  divine.  Memory  and  fancy  made  his  little  study  full  of  life,  peopling 
its  silent  walls  with  Nature's  cherished  charms. 


I  knew  another  Quaker-poet — Joseph  Wiffin,  the  translator  of  "  Tasso."  He 
spent  the  whole  of  his  later  life  in  easy  and  comfortable  retirement,  in  the  palatial 
dwelling,  and  among  the  patrician  woods,  of  Woburn  Abbey,  as  secretary  and 
librarian  to  the  Duke  of  Bedford.  Here  he  enjoyed  all  that  wealth  could  give, 
without  its  drawback  of  responsibility.  The  richest  stores  of  literature  and  art 
were  fully  and  freely  his  ;  and  men  of  letters,  whose  daily  toil  is  for  daily  bread, 
may  be  pardoned  if  they  envied  him  the  luxury  of  repose  among  the  books  and 
pictures  that  successive  Russells  had  gathered  together.  He  was  a  handsome, 
unassuming  man,  of  peculiarly  suave  and  gentle  manners,  seemingly  one  who  neither 
courted  the  honours  nor  encountered  the  struggles  of  an  outer  world.  He  died  in 
1836.  His  sister  was  the  widow  of  another  esteemed  and  popular  poet — Alaric  A. 
Watts.  She  also  has  left  earth,  and  her  son  is  married  to  the  daughter  of  William 
and  Mary  Howitt. 


JAMES   FEI^IMOEE   COOPER 

My  only  reason  for  inserting  here  a  Memory  of  the  great  American  novelist  is,  that 
I  was  introduced  to  him  by  Amelia  Opie,  meeting  him  first  at  her  hotel  in  the  Rue 
de  la  Paix,  Paris,  in  1831.  During  our  residence  there  in  that  year  I  saw  him 
often.  Not  long  after  my  return  I  wrote  my  "  recollections"  of  him  for  the  New 
Monthly  Magazine,  to  accompany  an  engraving  from  a  picture  painted  by  Madame 
Mirbel,  the  leading  miniature  painter  of  France.  This  is  my  written  portrait  of  him 
then  : — 

He  is  rather  above  than  under  the  middle  height,  his  figure  well  and  firmly  set, 
and  his  movements  more  rapid  than  graceful.  All  his  gestures  are  those  of  prompt- 
ness and  energy.  His  high,  expressive  forehead  is  a  phrenological  curiosity :  a  deep 
indenture  across  its  open  surface  throws  the  lower  organs  of  eventuality,  locality, 
and  individuality  into  fine  eff'ect;  while  those  immediately  above — comparison, 
casuality,  and  gaiety — are  equally  remarkable.    His  eyes,  which  are  deeply  set,  have 


JAMES  FENIMORE   COOPER.  183 

a  wild,  stormy,  and  restless  expression.  An  inflexible  firmness  gives  expression  to 
the  mouth.     His  head,  altogether,  is  startlingly  intellectual. 

He  was  the  heau  ideal — let  the  term  be  translated  at  will — of  an  American  citizen, 
and  gave  me,  more  than  any  other  man  I  have  ever  seen,  the  idea  of  a  Republican 
of  our  own  Republic  of  1650  :  stern,  perhaps,  in  his  bearing,  certainly  not  cordial  ; 
massive  in  head,  in  figure,  and  in  mind  ;  proud — but  it  Avas  democratic  pride,  the 
growth  of  study  and  necessity,  not  the  aristocratic  pride  that  you  see,  at  once, 
"comes  by  nature."  His  step  was  firm,  as  if  intended  as  an  outer  manifestation  of 
strong  will  and  approved  purpose.  I  cannot  describe  him  as  "  a  loveable  man  ;  "  but 
certainly  he  was  one  who  would  have  extorted  respect,  and  have  excited  fear — if  fear 
had  been  necessary  for  an  object  to  be  achieved. 

Later  in  life,  and  not  long  before  his  death,  this  portrait  of  him  was  drawn  by 
his  friend  and  physician.  Dr.  Francis  : — "  His  manly  figure,  high,  prominent  brow, 
clear  and  fine  grey  eye,  and  royal  bearing,  reveal  the  man  of  will  and  intelligence." 

At  the  time  to  which  I  refer,  I  received  a  letter  from  him  containing  some  bio- 
graphical facts.     From  that  letter  I  extract  the  following  passage  : — 

"My  family  settled  in  America  in  the  year  1579.  It  came  from  Buckingham,  in  England,  and 
for  a  century  it  dwelt  in  the  county  of  Bucks,  in  Pennsylvania.  It  then,  or  rather  my  brnnch  of 
it,  became  established  in  the  State  of  New  York.  My  mother  was  the  daughter  of  Richard 
Fenimore,  of  Burlington  County,  New  Jersey.  I  was  born  in  1789,  at  Burlington,  on  the  Dele- 
ware,  but  was  carried  an  infant  to  Corfrentour,  Ostego  County,  New  York.  I  was  sent  to  various 
grammar  schools  between  the  ages  of  six  and  twelve,  and  at  thirteen  I  was  admitted  to  Yale 
College,  New  Haven,  Connecticut.  Here  I  remained  three  years,  and  then  went  to  sea.  My 
father  died  in  1809.  I  married  the  second  daughter  of  John  Peter  De  Lancey,  of  Mamaronech 
West,  Chester  County,  New  York.  On  my  marriage  I  quitted  the  navy.  From  that  time  until 
I  came  to  Europe,  I  resided  either  at  Cooperstown  or  in  West  Chester  County,  or  in  the  city 
of  New  York.  My  first  book  was  published  in  1821,  since  which  time  a  tale  has  appeared 
annually.  I  was  appointed  Consul  at  Xiyons,  but  merely  to  protect  my  papers,  &c.  Never 
having  visited  Lyons,  this  nominal  post  I  resigned  on  quitting  Switzerland  in  1828.  In  1826  I 
came  to  Europe  as  a  traveller,  and  with  a  view  of  improving  my  health,  which  had  been  much 
injured  by  a  violent  fever  in  1824.  I  am  much  better,  thank  God,  and  begin  to  think  of  return- 
ing home." 

He  did  return  home  in  1833 — to  receive  the  honours  he  had  so  justly  earned, 
and  to  enjoy  the  repose  to  which  he  was  so  fairly  entitled.  He  did  not,  however, 
relinquish. work.  It  was  not  until  1840  that  one  of  the  best  of  his  books — "  The 
Pathfinder  " — was  published.  Some  one  called  him  "  the  prose  poet  of  the  woods 
and  seas."  He  was  more  than  that ;  he  was  not  a  mere  writer  of  fiction  ;  his  novels 
are  histories,  correct  and  authentic,  of  the  early  struggles  for  freedom  and  for  progress 
in  civilisation  of  his  country ;  while  they  are  accurate  delineations  of  American  cha- 
racter, coloured,  no  doubt,  by  patriotic  zeal,  but,  in  the  main,  true.  Moreover,  they 
sustain  morality  and  add  dignity  to  humanity.  Cooper  has  done  more  than  all  the 
other  writers  of  America — they  are  many,  and  worthy  of  all  honour — to  make  known 
to  the  world  (for  there  are  few  languages  into  which  his  works  have  not  been  trans- 
lated) "  his  country,  her  scenery,  her  characteristics,  her  aboriginal  inhabitants,  and 
her  history." 

He  died,  in  "the  full  fruition  of  the  promises  of  the  Christian  faith,"  at  his 
beautiful  sylvan  retreat  on  Ostego  Lake,  on  the  14th  September,  1851,  "  in  full 


possession  of  all  his  intellectual  powers  ;"  and  a  worthy  monument  to  his  memory- 
was  erected  by  subscription,  soon  after  his  death,  in  the  city  of  New  York. 

I  knew  also  Washington  Irving  when  he  had  passed  his  zenith,  and  was  resting 
with  his  crown  of  bays  pressing  on  his  broad  and  lofty  brow.  I  found  him  then,  as 
others  found  him,  sleepy  in  a  double  sense— physically  and  intellectually.  The  time 
was  somewhat  later  than  that  when  Jeffrey  (1822)  described  him  as  "  rather  low- 
spirited  and  ailing  in  mixed  company."  He  was  then  the  very  opposite  of  the  bold 
and  energetic  man  of  whom  I  have  just  written. 

There  are  but  few  other  distinguished  Americans  with  whom  I  have  been 
acquainted ;  among  them,  however,  I  must  name  Hawthorne — not  long  ago  removed 
from  us.  He  was  a  handsome  man,  of  good  "  presence  ;  "  reserved — nay,  painfully 
"  shy,"  and  apparently  utterly  unconscious  of  his  status  in  society.  He  was,  as  is 
known,  a  most  estimable  gentleman.  Those  who  knew  him  intimately  depose  to  the 
high  qualities  of  his  mind  and  heart.  Generous  in  all  his  sympathies,  of  a  nature 
earnestly  affectionate,  a  disposition  naturally  and  emphatically  good,  he  was  dearly 
loved  and  is  truly  mourned  by  the  widow  and  children  who  survive  him. 

I  knew  also  N.  P.  Willis,  from  whose  recollections  of  English  celebrities  I  have 
frequently  had  occasion  to  quote.  He  was  introduced  to  me  by  Lady  Blessington, 
with  a  view  to  his  contributing  articles  for  the  New  Monti ihj ;  and  several  of  his 
most  valuable  papers  were  published  in  that  magazine.  He  was  but  then  newly 
arrived  in  London  from  a  lengthened  tour  in  the  East,  and  soon  made  his  way  into 
the  best  English  circles  ;  for  his  manners  were  essentially  those  of  a  gentleman, 
though  somewhat  tainted  with  what  was  then  called  "  dandyism;  "  his  person  was 
in  his  favour  ;  he  dressed  well,  and  conversed  with  much  fluency  and  marked  effect ; 
he  had  seen  much,  read  much,  and  was  a  keen  observer  of  men  and  manners.  He  is 
one  of  the  men  of  mark  of  whom  his  great  country  is  rightly  and  justly  proud,. 

It  is  a  pleasure  to  make  record  of  our  short  acquaintance  with  that  most  excellent 
American  lady,  Mrs.  Sigourney.  We  maintained,  however,  a  close  correspondence 
with  her  during  many  years.  She  was  a  sweet  and  essentially  womanly  woman,  of 
mild  demeanour  and  very  gentle  manners  ;  handsome,  too,  although  she  had  passed 
the  mid-age  of  life  ;  and  was  thoroughly  loveable.  Those  who  knew  her  well  bear 
testimony  to  her  many  noble  qualities.  Her  mind  was  of  a  high  order.  She  saw  all 
things  with  generous  'eyes ;  strove — and  successfully — to  find  good  in  everything ; 
and  has  left  many  records  that  the  young  especially  may  study  with  great  profit — 
treading  in  the  footsteps  of  those  who  teach  much  that  is  right  and  nothing  that  is 
wrong. 


EOBEET   SOUTHEY. 


T  was  not  my  happy  destiny  to  know  mucli  of  Kobert  Southey — the  man 
of  all  the  men  of  letters  of  my  time  I  most  revere  ;  yet  it  is  something 
to  have  conversed  and  corresponded  with  that  truly  great  man, — a  lofty 
poet,  a  sound  teacher,  a  thorough  Christian,  who,  if  he  never  wrote  a 
line  that  "  dying  he  might  wish  to  blot,"  certainly  never  penned  a 
sentence  that  was  not  intended  to  do  good.  He  was  not  a  Christian 
in  theory  only ;  he  practised  all  the  virtues  inculcated  by  the  precepts 
and  examples  of  his  Divine  Master ;  and  the  less  assured  believer  may 
refer  to  him  as  one  of  the  many  great  intellectual  lights  who  had  faith 
in  the  Divinity  of  the  Saviour,  and  in  the  Gospel  as  a  direct  gift  from 
God.  Who  shall  say  how  much,  in  the  perilous  time  of  prevalent  infi- 
delity in  which  he  lived,  he  dispelled  doubts  and  destroyed  scepticism,  by  exhibiting 
a  man  who  had  read  and  thought  extensively  and  deeply,  seeking  for  truth  in 
every  occult  as  well  as  open  source — who  was  not  a  missionary  by  profession,  nor 
a  teacher  of  whom  instruction  was  demanded  as  a  duty — declaring  implicit  belief 
in  Christianity,  and  thus  confirming  and  strengthening  thinkers  and  reasoners  com- 
paratively weak  in  faith  ?  * 


*  Writing  to  James  Montgomery  in  1811,  he  says  : — "I  have  passed  through  many  changes  of  belief,  as  is  likely 
to  be  the  case  with  every  man  of  ardent  mind  who  is  not  gifted  with  humility  ; "  adding  that  Gibbon  first  struck  his 
faith  in  Christianity,  and  that  he  became,  "for  a  time,  a  Socinian,"  was  then  "inclined  to  try  Quakerisni,"  but 
ended  "  in  clinging  to  all  that  Christ  has  clearly  taught,  yet  shrinking  from  all  attempts  at  defending,  by  articles  of 
faith,  those  points  which  the  Gospels  have  left  indefinite."  "  For  many  years,"  he  writes  at  aperiod  long  afterwaids, 
"  my  belief  has  not  been  clouded  with  the  shadow  of  a  doubt ;  "  and,  still  later,  "Without  hope  there  can  be  no 
happiness,  and  without  religion  no  hope  but  such  as  deceives." 


1 86 


MEMORIES. 


I  desire  to  do  justice  to  the  memory  of  this  illustrious  man,  chiefly  because  he 
was  a  man  of  letters  hy  profession :  it  was  his  pride  so  to  proclaim  himself.  There  is 
"  a  craft,"  of  which  he  is  the  chief  (I  have  the  honour  to  be  a  humble  member  of  it), 
which  numbers  many  thousands,  who  derive  honourable  independence  solely  from 
literary  labour;  "whose  ivays,"  to  borrow  a  sentence  from  Southey,  "  are  as 
broad  as  the  Queen's  high  road,  but  whose  means  lie  in  an  inkstand."     It  cannot 


THE   BIETHPLACJB   OF   SOUTHBY. 


fail  to  cheer  and  encourage  all  such  to  consider  the  career  of  Kobert  Southey ;  so 
useful  to  every  class  that  came  under  his  influence  ;  at  once  so  high  and  so  humble  ; 
so  honourable,  so  independent,  so  pure;  so  brave,  yet  so  conciliating;  so  prudent, 
yet  so  generous ;  so  careful  of  all  home  duties ;  so  truly  the  idol  of  a  household ;  so 
just  in  all  his  dealings  with  fellow-men;  so  rational  in  the  expenditure  of  time;  so 
lavish  in  distributing  good  in  thought,  word,  and  deed  ;  so  true  to  man,  and  so 
faithful  to  God  ! 

The  family  of  Southey  was  originally — as  far  back  as  the  poet  could  trace  its 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY.  187 


history — settled  at  Wellington,  in  Somersetshire,  where  their  "heads"  appear  to 
have  been  small  farmers  or  substantial  yeomen.  His  father  was  a  linen-draper  at 
Bristol,  where  the  poet  was  born  on  the  12th  August,  1774.  The  house  is  still 
standing  in  Wine  Street :  I  have  engraved  it.  It  has  not  undergone  much  altera- 
tion, except  that  what  was  formerly  one  house  is  now  divided  into  two. 

Chiefly  by  the  help  of  a  maternal  uncle,  the  Rev.  Herbert  Hill,  Southey  was  sent, 
in  1788,  to  Westminster  School ;  and  in  1792  was  entered  at  Balliol  College, 
Oxford.  His  boy-teaching  had  been  obtained  at  Corston,  near  Bristol.  In  1793  he 
visited  the  school  "when  it  had  ceased  to  be  one,"  and  that  visit  induced  a  poem 
entitled  "  The  Retrospect,"  which  shows  however  much  he  may  have  wandered 
from  the  right  road  to  happiness,  the  seed  of  goodness  was  fructifying  in  his  soul. 
It  is  dated  1794,  and  addressed  to  "Edith,"  his  after  wife.  These  are  the  con- 
cluding lines  : — 

"  My  path  is  plain  and  straight,  that  light  is  given, 
Onward  in  faith,  and  leave  the  rest  to  Heaven." 

In  1836,  accompanied  by  his  son  Cuthbert,  Southey  visited  his  old  haunts  in 
Bristol,  and  was  entertained  by  Joseph  Cottle,  who  had  published  his  "  Joan  of 
Arc,"  in  1793.  He  had  forgotten  nothing — not  even  a  by-way !— in  the  city  of  his 
birth.  Let  us  imagine  his  feelings,  so  long  after  the  battle  had  been  fought  and  the 
victory  won,  and  when,  by  universal  accord,  he  was  recognised  among  the  foremost 
men  of  his  age  and  country.  Sixty-two  years  had  passed  since  his  birth,  and  nearly 
fifty  since  he  had  gone  out  into  the  world  to  find  the  road  to  fame.  He  was  a  way- 
worn, though  not  a  way-wearied,  man,  for  life  had  been  pleasant  to  him,  and  he  had 
trodden  mostly  in  the  paths  of  peace  ;  but  he  had  a  long  career  of  struggles  passed, 
obstacles  encountered,  and  difficulties  overcome,  to  look  back  upon,  as  he  stood 
before  that  tradesman's  house  in  Wine  Street,  and  walked  among  his  fellow-citizens, 
few  of  whom  knew  the  glory  he  conferred  upon  their  city,  and  the  intell-ectual  wealth 
he  had  acquired— to  lavish  it  on  mankind.  Probably,  in  that  great  capital  of  com- 
merce, he  would  have  excited  more  hoBaage  if  he  had  been  a  prosperous  sugar-baker  ; 
but  if  that  thought  had  come  to  him,  which  we  venture  to  say  it  did  not,  it  would 
not  have  kept  away  the  God-given  happiness  with  which  he  reviewed  his  past,  or 
have  lessened  his  gratitude  for  the  mercy  that  had  kept  him  active  in  His  service  for 


nearly  half  a  century  of  life.  He  visited  the  school-house  where  he  had  been 
taught  fifty-five  years  ago.  Fifty-five  years  ago  !  His  teachers,  no  doubt,  had  gone 
home  long  before,  and  we  are  not  told  that  there  were  any  to  greet  him,  in  the 
streets  or  in  the  houses  of  magnanimous  Bristol !  But  we  are  free  in  fancy  to  pic- 
ture the  venerable  white-headed  man  wearing  his  crown  of  glory,  conscious  of  his 
triumphs,  and  going  back,  back — with  the  pride  that  God  sanctions  and  approves — 
into  the  long  past. 

He  was,  in  a  manner,  compelled  to  leave  Westminster,  his  "  crime  "  being  that 
he  had  written  "  a  sarcastic  attack  upon  corporal  punishment,"  at  which  the  self- 
accused  head-master  took  mortal  offence  ;  and  on  that  ground  he  was  refused  admis- 
sion to  Christ  Church,  which  thus  lost  the  glory  that  would  have  clung  to  it  for  all 
time — conferring  it  on  Balliol.-'' 

In  1791,  while  at  College,  having  made  the  acquaintance  of  Coleridge,  they 
entered  into  the  Utopian  scheme  of  "  Pantisocracy,"  agreeing  to  become  emigrants  to 
the  New  World;  "  to  purchase  land  by  common  contributions,  to  be  cultivated  by 
their  common  labour  " — and  so  forth.  However  much  of  thoughtless  folly  there  was 
in  the  project,  it  certainly  originated  in  benevolence ;  and  that  it  met  the  earnest 
advocacy  of  Southey  is  only  evidence  of  large  and  genuine  love  of  his  kind.  For- 
tunately it  was  abandoned,  mainly  by  the  wise  advice  of  good  Joseph  Cottle,  the  first 
publisher  of  Southey,  Coleridge,  and  Wordsworth,  to  whose  volume  of  "  Recollec- 
tions" I  have  referred  in  writing  of  Coleridge.  By  him  "  Joan  of  Arc  "  was  pub- 
lished in  1794. 

Southey  was  married  to  Edith  Fricker  on  the  14th  November,  1795,  at  Eedcliff 
Church,  Bristol ;  her  sister  having  been  wedded  to  the  poet  Coleridge.  It  was  a 
marriage  of  pure  affection,  without  a  worldly  thought,  scarcely  with  a  worldly  hope ; 
and  it  endured  unbroken  and  undiminished  through  a  varied  and  trying  lifetime  of 
forty-two  years. 

In  1801  Coleridge  was  residing  at  Greta  Hall,  close  to  Keswick,  in  Cumberland ; 
he  described  to  Southey  the  attractions  of  the  locality: — "A  fairer  scene  you  have 
not  seen  in  all  your  wanderings  "  (Southey  had  but  recently  returned  from  Portugal) ; 
and  to  that  house,  in  1805,  Southey  removed.  There  he  dwelt  all  the  remainder  of 
his  days  ;  and  in  the  neighbouring  churchyard  of  Crosthwaite  he  is  buried. 

There  were  a  few  friends  in  the  neighbourhood— many  far  off,  with  whom  to 
correspond,  with  beautiful  scenery,  the  wonderful  works  of  God  in  rich  abundance 
all  about  him,  and  a  library  full  of  the  books  he  loved — all  his  own  ! 

In  1813,  by  the  death  of  Pye,  the  Laureateship  became  vacant,  and  the  appoint- 
ment was  conferred  upon  Southey,  having  been,  however,  previously  offered  to,  and 
declined  by,  Walter  Scott ;  and,  for  the  first  time,  the  ofiice,  instead  of  conferring 
dignity,  received  it  from  the  holder.  Southey's  successors  have  been  Wordsworth 
and  Tennyson. 


*  Southey  was  never  "  at  home"  in  Oxford.  Coleridge,  writing  to  him  in  1724,  says,  "  I  would  say  thou  art  a 
nightingale  among  owls,  but  thou  art  so  songless  and  heavy  towards  night,  that  I  will  rather  Uken  thee  to  the 
matin  lark  ;  thy  nest  is  in  a  blighted  corn-field,  where  the  sleepy  poppy  nods  its  red-cowled  head,  and  the  weak-eyed 
mole  plies  his  dark  work ;  but  thy  soaring  is  ever  unto  heaven." 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


It  is  needless  to  give,  even  in  outline,  a  history  of  the  full  life  of  Southey :  its 
main  facts  are  well  known  ;  yet  some  notes  I  may  offer  in  prefacing  my  slight  per- 
sonal Memory  of  the  great  and  good  man.  His  first  work,  the  drama  of  "  Wat 
Tyler,"  written  when  he  was  a  mere  youth,  haunted  by  visions  of  imaginary  Freedom, 
has  been,  for  more  than  half  a  century,  a  subject  of  irrational  censure  ;  and  because 
he  repented  him  of  the  evil,  he  has  been  branded  as  a  traitor  and  renegade  by  men 
who  were  utterly  incapable  of  comprehending  the  change  that  time  and  reason — and 
surely  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  Providence — had  wrought  in  the  mind  and  heart  of 
the  poet.  To  call  Southey  a  renegade  is  tantamount  to  calling  the  Apostle  Paul  an 
apostate.* 


GBETA.  HALL,   THE   DWELLING   OF  ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 


Byron  had  "a  sort  of  insane  and  rabid  hatred  "  of  Southey  ;  but  the  Laureate 
was  an  over-match  for  the  chief  of  "  the  Satanic  school."  He  "  sent  a  stone  from 
his  sling  that  smote  the  Goliath  in  the  forehead."  When  in  1817,  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  William  Smith,  of  Norwich,  branded  "  Wat  Tyler  "  as  "the  most  seditious 
book  that  ever  was  written,"  and  its  author  as  a  "renegado,"  Southey  addressed  to 
him  a  letter,  explaining  that  the  obnoxious  poem  had  been  written  twenty-three  years 
previous  to  1817 ;  that  a  copy  of  it  had  been  surreptitiously  obtained,  and  made 
public  by  some  skulking  scoundrel,  who  had  found  a  bookseller  to  issue  it  without  the 
writer's  knowledge,  for  the  avowed  purpose  of  insulting  him,  and  with  the  hope  of 
doing    him    injury;    that  it  was  "a    boyish    composition,"   "full  of    errors,"  and 


Southey  himself  wi'ote,  "  I  should  be  as  much  ashamed  of  having  been  a  Republican  as  I  should  of  having  been 


a  child.- 


190  MEMORIES. 

"  miscliievous,"  written  under  the  influence  of  opinions  long  since  outgrown  and 
repeatedly  disclaimed  ;  that  the  writer  had  claimed  the  book  only  that  it  might  be 
suppressed.* 

The  "reply"  to  William  Smith  was  scathing  :  it  is,  perhaps,  as  grand  a  "  defence  " 
as  the  English  language  can  supply — stern,  fierce,  and  desperately  bitter,  yet  manly, 
dignified,  and  thoroughly  teue.  There  was  self-gratulation,  but  no  self-glorification, 
in  his  reference  to  "  Wat  Tyler," — "  Happy  are  they  who  have  no  worse  sins  of  their 
youth  to  rise  up  in  judgment  against  them," — and  when  he  says  of  himself,  "  He  has 
not  ceased  to  love  Liberty  with  all  his  heart,  with  all  his  soul,  and  with  all  his 
strength."  It  was  with  a  pride  not  only  justifiable,  but  holy,  that  in  this  famous 
letter  he  said,  in  future  biographies  of  him  it  will  be  recorded  that  "  he  lived  in  the 
bosom  of  his  family,  in  absolute  retirement ;  that  in  all  his  writings  there  breathed 
the  same  abhorrence  of  oppression  and  immorality,  the  same  spirit  of  devotion,  and 
the  same  ardent  wishes  for  the  amelioration  of  ^mankind  ;  .  .  .  that  in  an  age  of  per- 
sonality he  abstained  from  satire."  \ 

His  biographers  may  say  much  more  than  that.  Although  there  is  abundant 
evidence  of  his  sacrifices  to  serve  or  comfort  young  aspirants  for  fame,  to  draw 
upwards  and  onwards  struggling  men  of  letters  who  needed  help,  there  is  not  a  tittle 
of  proof — there  could  not  be,  for  it  does  not  exist — of  his  ever  having  written  a  line 
to  discourage  the  deserving.  [In  a  letter  to  Bernard  Barton,  Sou  they,  referring  to  his 
connection  with  the  Quarterly  Review,  makes  note  of  "  the  abuse  and  calumny  he  had 
to  endure  for  opinions  he  did  not  hold  and  articles  he  had  not  written."]  Now  that 
every  review  he  ever  wrote  is  known,  they  may  be  read  to  obtain  only  conviction  that  he 
was  generous  as  well  as  just,  merciful  as  well  as  wise,  whenever  a  work  came  under 
his  hands  as  a  reviewer.  "  As  a  writer  "  (I  quote  from  Coleridge,  who  knew  him  so 
well)  "  he  has  uniformly  made  his  talents  subservient  to  the  best  interests  of  humanity, 
of  public  virtue,  and  domestic  piety.  His  cause  has  ever  been  the  cause  of  pure  religion 
and  of  liberty,  of  national  independence  and  national  illumination." 

These  are,  among  others,  the  subjects  on  which  he  wrote — advocating  religion, 
virtue,  the   cause   of  humanity,   and  the  natural  rights   of   man — at  a  time  when 

*  Sir  W.  Scott,  writing:  to  Southey  in  1817,  refers  to  William  Smith  as  a  "  coarse-minded  fellow,"  who 
"  deserved  all  he  got."  "  His  attack  seems  to  have  proceeded  from  the  vulgar  insolence  of  a  low  mind  desirous  of 
attacking  genius  at  a  disadvantage." 

+  He  indulged,  at  times,  in  mild  and  gentle  satire,  such  as  left  no  festering  wound.  In  Mrs.  Hnll's  Album  he 
wrote  the  following.  I  must  premise  that  the  autographs  of  Joseph  Buonaparte  and  Daniel  O'Connell  occupied  the 
"  opposite  page."     On  the  same  page  ai'e  the  autographs  of  Amelia  Opie  and  Maria  Edgeworth  : — 

"  Birds  of  a  feather  flock  together, 
But  vide  the  opposite  page, 
And  thence  you  may  gather  I'm  not  of  a  feather 
With  some  of  the  birds  in  this  cage. 

"  EoBKET  Southey,  ^2nd  October,  1836." 

Some  years  afterwards  Charles  Dickens,  good-humouredly  refemng  to  Southey's  change  of  opinion,  wi-ote  in  the 
Album,  immediately  under  Southey's  lines,  the  following : — 

"  Now  if  I  don't  make 
The  completest  mistake 
That  ever  put  man  in  a  rage, 
This  bird  of  two  weathers 
Has  moulted  his  feathers. 
And  left  them  in  some  other  cage. 
"  Boz." 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


envenomed  slander  was  brawling  to  "  cry  him  down  "  as  a  Tory,  a  Government  hack, 
and  a  hired  enemy  of  freedom  : — 

The  diffusion  of  cheap  literature  of  a  healthy  and  harmless  kind ;  the  importance 
of  a  wholesome  training  for  children  in  large  towns ;  the  wisdom  of  encouraging 
female  emigration  under  a  well-organised  system  ;  a  better  order  of  hospital  nurses  ; 
the  establishment  of  savings-banks  throughout  the  country  ;  the  abolition  of  flogging 
in  the  army  and  navy  ;  extensive  alterations  in  the  Game  Laws ;  arguments  for 
greatly  diminishing  the  punishment  of  death  ;  regulations  for  lessening  the  hours  of 
labour  of  children  in  factories ;  the  policy  of  discontinuing  interments  in  crowded 
cities  and  towns  ;  the  employment  of  paupers  in  cultivating  waste  lands ;  proposals 
for  increasing  facilities  for  educating  the  people  ;*  the  wise  humanity  of  Magdalen 
institutions  ;  against  a  Puritanical  observance  of  the  Sabbath ;  advocating  judicious 
alterations  in  the  Liturgy. 

Li  short,  there  is  hardly  a  theme  of  rational  reform  of  which  he  was  not  the 
zealous  and  eloquent  advocate. 

These  lines  were  written  by  Southey  in  the  year  1813,  long  after  he  had  become, 
by  God's  mercy,  "  a  renegade  :" — 

"  Train  up  thy  childi'en,  England,  in  the  ways 
Of  righteousness,  and  feed  them  with  the  bread 
Of  wholesome  doctrine.    Where  hast  thou  thy  mines 

But  in  their  industry  % 
Their  bulwarks  where,  but  in  their  breasts  ? 

Thy  might  but  in  their  arms  % 
Shall  not  their  numbers,  therefore,  be  thy  wealth, 
Thy  strength,  thy  power,  thy  safety,  and  thy  pride  ? 

Oh  grief,  then,  grief  and  shame, 

If  in  this  flourishing  land 
There  should  be  dwellings  where  the  new-born  babe 

Doth  bring  into  its  parent's  soul  no  joy, 

WTiere  squalid  poverty 

Receives  it  at  its  birth, 

And  on  her  withered  knees 
Gives  it  the  scanty  food  of  discontent." 

It  was  Southey  who  edited  the  first  collected  edition  of  the  poems  of  Chatterton 
(published  1802),  by  which  the  sister  and  niece  of  the  unhapppy  boy  obtained  £300, 
that  "  rescued  them  from  great  poverty."  It  was  he,  too,  who,  when  reviewers  were 
hard  upon  Henry  Kirke  White,  reached  out  a  hand  to  him  struggling  amid  troubled 
waters,  editing  his  poems,  and  consecrating  his  memory  after  his  death.  For  Herbert 
Knowles,  who  had  written  a  poem  "  brimful  of  power  and  of  promise,"  he  "  wanted 
to  raise  (and  did  raise)  £30  a  year,"  of  which  "  he  would  himself  give  £10,"  to  send 
him  as  a  sizar  to  Oxford.  Like  unhappy  White,  however,  who  died  while  "  life  was 
in  its  prime,"  Knowles  enjoyed  the  aid  but  a  short  time  :  "  the  lamp  was  consumed 
by  the  fixe  that  burned  in  it."  So  far  back  as  1809  he  wrote  encouragement  to 
Ebenezer  Elhott,  saying,  "Go  on,  and  you  will  prosper."  The  footman,  "honest 
John  Jones,"  and  the  milkmaid,  Mary  Colling,  were  not  too  humble  or  insignificant 
for  his  helping  praise.  Both  had  that  which  peers  coveted  at  his  hand  in  vain — 
laudatory  reviews  in  the  Qiunterly  Review ;  and  of  the  poems  of  each  he  was  the 
"  editor,"  to  the  profit  as  well  as   honour  of  both.     When  he  dipped  his  pen  in 

*  "  I  want  to  show  how  much  moral  and  intellectual  improvement  is  within  the  reach  of  those  who  are  made 
more  our  inferiors  than  there  is  any  necessity  that  they  should  be,  to  show  that  they  have  minds  to  be  enlarged  and  " 
feelings  to  be  gratified,  as  well  as  souls  to  be  saved. 


gall — for,  as  lie  somewhere  says,  he  was  not  in  the  habit  of  diluting  his  ink — it 
was  to  assail  those  he  considered  equally  the  foes  of  God  and  man.  The  impetus- 
may  be  found  in  the  , following  passage  from  one  of  his  "  Letters  concerning  Lord 
Byron  : " — 

"  The  puTjlication  of  a  lascivious  book  is  ore  of  the  worst  offences  that  can  be  committed 
against  the  well-being  of  society.  It  is  a  sin  to  the  consequences  of  wliich  no  limits  can  be  assigned; 
and  those  consequences  no  after  repentance  in  the  writer  can  counteract.  Whatever  remorse  of 
conscience  he  may  feel  when  his  hour  comes  (imd  come  it  must)  will  be  of  no  avail.  'I'he  poignancy 
of  a  death-bed  repentance  cannot  cancel  one  copy  of  tlie  thousands  that  aie  sent  abroad;  and  so 
long  as  it  continues  to  be  read,  so  long  is  he  the  pander  of  posterity,  and  so  long  is  he  heaping  up 
guilt  upon  his  soul  in  perpetual  accumulation." 

Yes,  a  very  large  portion  of  his  busy,  active,  and  hard-working  life  was  devoted 
to  the  cause  of  benevolence — the  whole  of  it  to  the  advancement  of  his  kind  in  know- 
ledge, virtue,  loyalty,  and  piety.  It  was  indeed  a  hard-working  life  ;  yet  so  regular, 
so  methodic,  so  "  systematised,"  that  when  one  reviews  his  habits,  one  ceases  to 
wonder  at  the  quantity  of  labour  he  "  got  through."* 

It  was  to  this  regularity  the  world  is  mainly  indebted  for  the  rich  and  abundant 
legacy  he  bequeathed  to  posterity.  "  Every  day,  every  hour,  had  its  allotted 
employment ;"  his  son  tells  us,  and  he  himself  describes,  the  even  tenor  of  his  way 
from  early  morn  till  night.  He  was  "  by  profession  a  man  of  letters  ; "  and  though 
he  found  ample  leisure  for  home  duties,  for  the  domestic  charities  that  dignify  and 
sweeten  life,  he  had  none  for  what  is  usuaUy  callad  pleasure.  He  dared  not  be  idle  ; 
for  continual  and  arduous  labour  only  could  bring  to  that  home  the  comforts  and 
small  luxuries  there  were  so  many  to  share ;  not  alone  of  his  own  immediate  family, 
but  of  near  and  dear  relatives,  whose  dependence  was  chiefly,  in  some  cases  solely, 
upon  the  fruits  of  his  toil. 

"  My  notions  of  competence,"  he  writes,  "  do  not  exceed  £300  a  year."  Earlier 
than  that,  in  1808,  we  find  him  rejoicing  that  "the  £200  a  year  which  is  necessarj'- 
for  mj^  expenditure  is  within  my  reach."  In  that  year,  writing  to  Cottle,  he  says  : 
"  The  very  money  with  which  I  bought  my  wedding-ring  and  paid  my  marriage  fees 
was  supplied  by  you  ;"  and  he  adds,  "  There  lives  not  the  man  upon  earth  whom  I 
remember  with  more  gratitude,  or  more  affection." 

The  income  he  derived  from  his  post  of  Poet-Laureate  he  devoted  to  effect  an 
insurance  on  his  life.  Indeed,  at  no  period  of  his  career  was  his  income  so  large  as 
that  of  a  first-class  banker's  clerk;  yet  he  was  often  described  as  "  rich,"  and  once, 
at  least,  as  "rolling  in  riches  unworthily  obtained."!  He  was  a  spendthrift  only  in 
books — the  tools  without  which  he  could  do  no  work  :  among  them  he  lived.     De 

*  Some  idea  of  his  early  industi-y  in  verse -making  may  be  formed  from  the  fact,  that  in  1793,  he  burned  ten 
thousand  verses,  preserved  about  the  same  number,  and  put  aside  fifteen  thousand  as  "  worthless,"  excluding 
letters,  many  of  which  were  written  in  rhyme.  "  Time  has  been  when  I  have  written  iifty,  eighty,  one  hundred 
lines  before  breakfast,  and  I  remember  to  have  composed  twelve  hundred  (many  of  them  the  best  I  ever  did  produce) 
in  a  week." — Southey  in  a  letter  to  Montgomery. 

+  From  a  letter  (inedited)  to  Miss  Seaward,  I  quote  the  following  passage  :— "  Your  estimate  of  the  value  of 
my  copyrights  moved  me  to  a  doleful  smile .  I  sold  the  copyright  of  '  Joan  of  Arc  '  for  fifty  guineas  and  fifty  copies . 
I  sold  the  edition  of  'Thalaba'  for  £115,  and  the  edition  hangs  on  hand.  The  fate  of  '  Madoo '  vou  know.  No 
bookseller  would  give  me  £500,  nor  half  the  sum,  for  the  best  poem  which  it  is  in  my  power  to  produce.  Constable 
would  not  even  make  me  an  offer  for  '  Kehama,'  when,  in  return  to  his  overture  (which  proved  to  relate  to  his 
Review^  I  asked  him.  through  Scott,  what  he  would  give  for  it.  It  is  only  Scott  who  can  get  his  thousands.  He 
has  got  the  goose.  My  swan's  eggs  are  not  golden  ones.  Now  that  looks  like  a  sarcasm,  and  it  belies  me  in 
looking  so." 


ROBERT  SOUTH EY.  193 


Quincey  calls  his  library  "his  wife:"  it  was,  at  all  events,  there  his  time  was  spent. 
"They  are  on  actual  service,"  he  writes.  They  were  books,  not  for  show,  but  for 
use  ;  acquired  by  degrees,  as  his  means  enabled  him  to  procure  them  :  gradually 
they  multiplied,  until  they  numbered  14,000  volumes.  With  them  he  dwelt,  "  living 
in  the  past,"  and  "  conversing  with  the  dead."  In  one  of  his  Colloquies  he  gives  a 
few  interesting  notes  as  to  the  sources  from  which  some  of  them  came  :  from  monas- 
teries and  colleges  that  had  been  ransacked,  many;  from  the  old  bookstalls,  where 
he  haunted,  others  ;  while  some  were  the  welcome  gifts  of  cherished  friends.  Again 
they  have  been  dispersed  ;  but  they  had  done  their  work.  "  Wherever  they  go,"  he 
writes,  "  there  is  not  one  among  them  that  will  ever  be  more  comfortably  lodged,  or 
more  highly  prized  by  its  possessor."  Yes,  they  had  done  their  work  ;  the  proof  is 
this  :  he  published  nearly  one  hundred  volumes,  original  and  edited,  and  upwards  of 
two  hundred  articles  contributed  to  the  Quarterlij  and  other  reviews.  He  had,  as 
one  of  his  friends  writes,  "  enjoyment  in  all  books  whatsoever  that  were  not  morally 
tainted  or  absolutely  barren."  He  read  with  amazing  rapidity,  and  saw  at  a  glance 
over  a  page  where  was  the  grain  and  where  the  chaff. 

"  Here,"  he  exclaims,  "  I  possess  those  gathered  treasures  of  time,  the  harvest  of 
so  many  generations,  laid  up  in  my  garners  ;  and  when  I  go  to  the  windows,  there  is 
the  lake,  and  there  the  circle  of  the  mountains,  and  the  illimitable  sky  ! " 

The  pure  and  lofty- — -nay,  the  "  holy  "  character  of  Southey  may  be  judged  from 
his  works ;  but  if  other  testimony  be  needed,  there  is  ample — not  alone  from  friends, 
but  from  foes.  "  In  all  the  relations  and  charities  of  private  life,"  writes  Hazlitt, 
who  was  in  many  ways  his  adversary,  "  he  is  correct,  exemplary,  generous,  just." 
William  Howitt — who  by  no  means  takes  a  generous  view  of  his  works,  their  motives 
and  their  uses — deposes  to  his  "  many  virtues  and  the  peculiar  amiability  of  his 
domestic  life."  Lamb,  after  his  unmeaning  quarrel  with  him,  is  made  happy  by  the 
tenderness  with  which  the  high-souled  Laureate  sought  reconciliation  ;  the  essayist 
writing,  "  Think  of  me  as  of  a  dog  that  went  mad  and  bit  you."  The  political  bias 
of  Thackeray  was  the  opposite  to  that  of  Southey ;  yet  this  is  the  testimony  of  the 
author  of  "  The  Four  Georges  "  to  the  Poet  Laureate  of  George  IV. : — "  An  English 
worthy ;  doing  his  duty  for  fifty  noble  years  of  labour ;  day  by  day  storing  up  learn- 
ing ;  day  by  day  working  for  scant  wages  ;  most  charitable  out  of  his  small  means  ; 
bravely  faithful  to  the  calling  he  had  chosen  ;  refusing  to  turn  from  his  path  for 
popular  praise  or  prince's  favour.  I  hope  his  life  will  not  be  forgotten,  for  it  is 
sublime  in  its  simplicity,  its  energy,  its  honour,  its  affection." 

I  offer  no  comments  on  either  the  poetry  or  prose  of  Southey  ;  I  assume  both  to 
be  sufiiciently  known  to  my  readers.  Indeed,  generally  in  these  "  Memories  "  I 
adopt  that  plan.  Others  have  shown,  and  others  may  yet  show,  the  purity  of  his 
style.  No  author,  living  or  dead,  drank  more  exclusively  from  "  the  pure  well  of 
English  undefiled,"  and  no  student  of  "  English  "  can  drink  from  a  better  source  than 
the  writings  of  Southey.* 

*  In  a  MS.  note  of  Ltetitia  Landon  concerning  Southey  I  find  this  remark :— "  There  is  something  in  Southey's 
genius  that  always  gives  me  fin  idea  of  the  Alhambra.  There  is  the  grand  proportion  and  the  fantastic  o]n?ment 
The  setting  of  his  verses  is  like  a  rich  arabesque ;  it  is  fretted  gold.    The  Oriental  magnificence  of  his  longer 

O 


194  MEMORIES. 

I  may,  however,  quote  this  passage  from  a  letter  written  to  me  by  Walter  Savage 
Landor : — 

"  Of  late  years  the  prose  of  Southey  has  been  preferred  to  his  poetry.  It  rarely  happens  that 
there  is  a  preference  without  a  disparagement.  No  poet  in  the  present  or  the  past  century  has 
■written  three  such  poems  as  '  Thalaba,'  'Kehama,',  and  '  Roderick.'  Others  have  more  excelled  in 
DELINEATING  what  they  find  before  them  in  life,  but  none  have  given  such  proofs  of  extraordinary 
power  of  CREATING.  He  has  been  called  diffuse,  because  there  is  a  spaciousness  and  amplitude 
about  his  poetry,  as  if  concentration  was  the  highest  quality  of  the  writer.  He  lays  all  his  thoughts 
before  us,  but  they  never  rush  forth  tumultuously.  He  excels  in  unity  of  design  and  congruity  of 
character;  and  never  did  poet  more  adequately  express  heroic  fortitude  and  generous  affection. 
He  has  not,  however,  limited  his  pen  to  grand  paintings  of  epic  character.  Among  his  shorter 
productions  will  be  found  some  light  and  graceful  sketches,  full  of  beauty  and  feeling,  and  not  the 
less  valuable  because  they  invariably  aim  at  promoting  virtue." 

That  he  had  many  and  bitter  foes  is  certain.  No  doubt  they  disturbed  him 
much;  but  "the  conscience  void  of  offence  "justified  his  repeated  declaration  that 
they  took  little  from  his  peace  and  happiness,  and  affected  him  no  more  than  a  pebble 
could  a  stone  wall.  It  is,  I  think,  Coleridge  who  says,  "  Future  critics  will  have  to 
record  that  quacks  in  education,  quacks  in  politics,  and  quacks  in  criticism  were  his 
only  enemies." 

I  quote  his  own  lines  : — 

"  We  soon  live  down 
Evil  or  good  report,  when  undeserved." 

The  earliest  testimony  to  his  moral  and  intellectual  worth  is  that  of  the  publisher 
Cottle  ;  yet  this  of  Coleridge  may  have  been  even  earlier : — "  It  is  Southey's  almost 
unexampled  felicity  to  possess  the  best  gifts  of  talents  and  genius  free  from  all  their 
characteristic  defects."  He  deposes  also  to  the  poet's  matchless  industry  and  per- 
severance in  his  pursuits,  and  the  worthiness  and  dignity  of  those  pursuits  ;  to  the 
methodical  tenor  of  his  daily  labours,  which  might  be  envied  even  by  the  mere  man 
of  business ;  the  dignified  simplicity  of  his  manners  ;  the  spring  and  healthful  cheer- 
fulness of  his  spirits.  As  "  son,  brother,  husband,  father,  master,  friend,  he  moves 
with  firm,  yet  light  steps,  alike  unostentatious  and  alike  exemplary;"  and  in  one  of 
his  letters  to  Southey  of  a  later  date  he  writes, — "  God  knows  my  heart.  I  am 
delighted  to  feel  you  as  superior  to  me  in  genius  as  in  virtue." 

I  might  quote  such  testimonies  in  abundance,  but  another  will  suffice.  It  is  that 
of  one  who  knew  him  as  intimately,  and  had  studied  him  as  closely,  as  his  friend 
Coleridge — the  poet  Wordsworth.  These  lines,  written  after  Southey's  death,  are 
inscribed  on  his  monument : — 

"  Whether  he  traced  historic  truth,  with  zeal 
For  the  State's  guidance,  or  the  Chiu-ch's  weal, 
Or  Fancy,  disciplined  by  studious  art. 
Informed  his  pen,  or  wisdom  of  the  heart, 
Or  judgment  sanctioned  in  the  Patriot's  mind 
By  reverence  for  the  rights  of  all  mankind, 
Wide  were  liis  aims,  yet  in  no  human  breast 
Could  private  feelings  meet  for  holier  rest." 

poems— such  as  '  Thalaba ' — is  singularly  contrasted  with  the  quaint  simplicity  of  his  minor  poems.  They  give  the 
idea  of  innocent  yet  intelligent  children,  yet  almost  startle  you  with  the  depth  of  knowledge  that  a  simple  truth 
may  convey."     Some  one  said  of  his  "  style,"  it  was  "proper  words  in  proper  places." 

Thus  Lamb  writes  to  Southey : — "  The  antiquarian  spirit  strong  in  you,  and  gracefully  blending  even  with 
the  religious,  may  have  been  sown  in  you  among  those  wrecks  of  splendid  mortality  "—the  dim  aisles  and  cloisters 
of  the  old  abbey  at  Westminster. 


ROBERT  SOUTHS Y.  19: 


I  may  add,  perhaps,  that  of  one  other  dear  friend  and  true  lover — the  author  of 
"  Philip  Van  Artevelde  :  " — 

"  That  heart,  the  simplest,  gentlest,  kindliest,  best, 
Where  truth  and  manly  tenderness  are  met. 
With  faith  and  heavenward  hope,  the  suns  that  never  set." 

The  earliest  description  of  his  person  is  that  of  his  friend,  the  Bristol  publisher, 
Cottle.  The  youth,  as  he  pictures  him,  was  "tall,  dignified,  an  eye  piercing;  a 
countenance  full  of  genius,  kindliness,  and  innocence  ;  possessing  great  suavity  of 
manners."  *  His  height  was  five  feet  eleven  inches.  "  His  forehead  was  very  broad  ; 
his  complexion  rather  dark ;  the  eyebrows  large  and  arched  ;  the  eye  well  shaped, 
and  dark  brown  ;  the  mouth  somewhat  prominent,  muscular,  and  very  variously 
expressive;  the  chin  small  in  proportion  to  the  upper  features  of  the  face."  So 
writes  his  son,  who  adds  that  "  many  thought  him  a  handsomer  man  in  age  than  in 
youth,"  when  his  hair  had  become  white,  continuing  abundant,  and  flowing  in  thick 
curls  over  his  brow.  Byron,  who  saw  him  but  twice, — once  at  Holland  House,  and 
once  at  one  of  Rogers'  breakfasts, — said,  "  To  have  that  man's  head  and  shoulders, 
I  would  almost  have  written  his  sapphics."  That  was  in  1813,  when  Southey  was 
in  his  prime.  Hazlitt  thus  pictures  him: — "Southey,  as  I  remember  him,  had  a 
hectic  flush  upon  his  cheek,  a  roving  fire  in  his  eye,  a  falcon  glance,  a  look  at  once 
aspiring  and  dejected."  Other  authors  write  of  him  in  similar  terms — all  describing 
him  as  of  refined  yet  manly  beauty  of  person,  f 

To  his  habits  I  have  made  some  reference.  Cottle  says  of  him  when  a  youth, — 
"  His  regular  habits  scarcely  rendered  it  a  virtue  in  him  never  to  fail  in  an  engage- 
ment." Thus  wrote  De  Quincey  long  afterwards:  — "  So  prudently  regular  was 
Southey  in  all  his  habits,  that  all  letters  were  answered  in  the  evening  of  the  day  that 
brought  them."  "  Study,"  Hazlitt  says,  "  serves  him  for  business,  exercise,  recrea- 
tion." Not  quite  so,  for  he  was  a  good  walker,  "  walking  twenty  miles  at  a  stretch." 
It  was  thus  he  made  acquaintance  not  only  with  the  mountains  and  lakes,  but  with 
the  hills,  and  dales,  and  crags,  and  streams  of  the  wild  district  in  which  he  dwelt. 

*  There  is  a  portrait  of  Southey  engraved  in  Cottle's  "  Reminiscences, "  picturing  him  with  long  hair,  "  curling 
beautifully,"  the  hair  which  he  declined  to  submit  to  the  shears  and  powder  of  the  barber  at  Oxford,  to  the  bai-ber's 
intense  disgust. 

t  Tn  a  pleasant  rambling  epistle,  in  rhjone,  to  Allan  Cunningham,  and  published  by  Allan  in  the  Anniversary, 
of  which  he  was  the  editor,  Southey  treats  of  the  various  portraits  that  had  been  painted  of  him.  Of  most  of  them 
he  complained — 

"  They 
Who  put  one's  name,  for  public  sale,  beneath 
A  set  of  features  slanderously  unlike, 
Are  our  worst  libellers." 

He  showed  to  Allan  such  an  array  of  "villainous  visages"  as  would  sufiSoe  to  make  him,  in  "  mere  shame,"  take 
up  an  alias,  and  forswear  himself.  First  was  "  a  dainty  gentleman,"  with  sleepy  eyes,  half  closed,  "saucy  and 
sentimental ;"  next,  "  a  jovial  landlord,"  whose  cheeks  had  been  engrained  by  many  a  pipe  of  Porto's  vintage; 
next,  a  leaden-visaged  specimen  of  one  in  the  evangelical  line  ;  next,  one  sent  from  Germany  by  the  Brothers: 
Schumann ;  he  wished  them  no  worse  misfortune  for  their  recompense 

"  Than  to  fall  in  with  such  a  cut-throat  face 
In  the  black  forest  of  the  Odenwald." 

He  owned  "Sir  Smug,"  and  recognised  the  likeness  when  "  at  the  looking-glass  "  he  stood  "with  razor-weaponed 
hand  ;  "  but  next  saw  himself  so  pictured  as  if  on  trial  at  the  Old  Bailey,  when 

"  that  he  is  guilty 
No  judge  or  jury  could  have  half  a  doubt." 

Notwithstanding,  however,  these  "  complaints,"  he  was  often  "  well  and  l-ruly  "  painted.  The  best  portrait  of  him, 
probably,  is  that  by  Laurence,  which  has  been  of.en  engraved,  and  of  which  my  woodcut  is  a  copy. 

o  2 


io6 


MEMORIES. 


1 


He  did  not  often,  as  Wordsworth,  did,  sound  their  praises  in  verse,  but  he  had  as  full 
a  capacity  for  enjoying  the  beaut'ies  of  nature — the  more  so  because  he  ever  looked 
from  nature  up  to  nature's  God. 

His  manner  seemed  to  me  to  be  peculiarly  gentle.  William  Hazlitt  has  complained 
that  "  there  was  an  air  of  condescension  in  his  civility."  To  him,  perhaps,  there  was, 
for  he  neither  respected  the  writer  nor  Hked  the  man  ;  but  De  Quincey  also  writes, — 
"  There  was  an  air  of  reserve  and  distance  about  him — the  reserve  of  a  lofty,  relf- 
respecting  mind  — perhaps  a  little  too  freezing,  in  his  treatment  of  all  persons  who 
were  not  amongst  the  coriia  of  his  ancient  fireside  friends."  But  he  adds,  "  For 
honour  the  most  delicate,  for  integrity  the  firmest,  and  for  generosity  within  the  limits 
of  prudence,  Southey  cannot  well  have  a  superior."  He  writes  also  "  of  his  health 
so  regular,  and  cheerfulness  so  uniformly  serene  ;  "  and  adds  that  "  his  golden  equa- 
nimity was  bound  up  in  a  threefold  chain — in  a  conscience  clear  of  offence,  in  the 
recurring  enjoyments  from  his  honourable  industry,  and  in  the  gratification  of  his 
parental  affections." 

Southey  was  "  constitutionally  cheerful,  and  therefore  hopeful."  In  a  letter  to 
James  Montgomery  he  thus  writes  :— "  Oh  that  I  could  impart  to  you  a  portion  of 
that  animal  cheerfulness  which  I  would  not  exchange  for  the  richest  earthly  inheri- 
tance !  For  me,  when  those  whom  I  love  cause  me  no  sad  anxiety,  the  skylark  on  a 
summer  morning  is  not  more  joyous  than  I  am  ;  and  if  I  had  wings  on  my  shoulders, 
I  should  be  up  with  him  in  the  sunshine  carolling  for  pure  joy." 

"  A  cheerful  life  is  what  the  Mnses  love, 
A  soanng  spirit  is  their  prime  delight." 

His  rehgion  was  practical.  In  his  calm  solitude,  amid  a  quiet  and  contented 
peasantry,  few  cases  of  grief  and  misery  came  in  his  way,  and  he  was  ever  too  busy 
a  man  to  seek  them ;  but  there  were  many  pensioners  on  his  small  income ;  some 
who  had  rights,  others  who  had  none.  This  is  one  of  his  very  few  references  to  the 
subject :— "  It  is  my  fate  to  have  more  claimants  upon  me  than  usually  fall  to  the 
share  of  a  man  who  has  a  family  of  his  own."'  Only  once  in  his  life  was  he  able  to 
say  he  had  a  year's  sufficient  income  "  in  advance."  Yet  he  writes,  "  On  the  whole, 
few  men  have  had  more  reason  to  be  thankful  for  blessings  enjoyed." 

Although  he  said  of  himself — 

"  Thus,  in  the  ages  which  are  past  I  live, 
And  those  which  are  to  come  my  sure  reward  will  give  "— 

anticipated  honours  were  not  the  only  ones  he  enjoyed,  albeit  he  was  so  wise  as 
uniformly  to  decline  the  political  and  social  distinctions  that  were  offered  him.  In 
1826,  during  his  absence  in  Hohand,  he  was  elected  member  for  the  borough  of 
Downtou  by  the  influence  of  Lord  Kadnor ;  that  honour  he  declined,  as  consistent 
neither  with  his  circumstances,  inclinations,  habits,  nor  pursuits  in  life.  Moreover, 
the  return  was  null,  inasmuch  as  he  held  a  pension  of  £200  a  year  "during  pleasure," 
and  was  without  a  "  qualification."  The  latter  objection  would  have  been  removed 
by  a  subscription  of  admirers  and  friends  to  purchase  for  him  the  requisite  "  estate  ;  " 
but  other  objections  retained  their  force.  Robert  Southey,  therefore,  continued  to  be 
"  Robert  Lackland,"  and  a  new  writ  was  moved  for. 


R0BER2    SOUTHEY.  197 


In  1835  (the  letter  is  dated  February  1st)  Sir  Robert  Peel  communicated  to 
Southey  thus:  — "I  have  advised  the  king  to  adorn  the  distinction  of  baronetage 
with  a  name  the  most  eminent  in  literature,  and  v^hich  has  claims  to  respect  and 
honour  that  literature  alone  can  never  confer."  And  in  a  second  letter  Sir  Robert 
alludes  to  the  eminent  services  he  had  rendered  not  only  to  literature,  but  to  the 
higher  interests  of  virtue  and  religion. 

That  honour  Southey  also  declined,  having,  however,  first  communicated  with  his 
son,  and  found  the  opinions  and  feelings  of  that  son  in  entire  harmony  with  his  own. 
"  I  am  writing,"  he  said,  "  for  a  livelihood,  and  a  livelihood  is  all  I  have  gained." 
Incessant  work  "enabled  him  to  live  respectably,  nothing  more:"  "without  his 
pension,"  he  says,  "  it  would  not  have  done  even  that." 

Walter  Scott,  in  a  letter  to  Southey,  entreats  him  to  take  warning  and  not  over- 
ivork  himself.  How  frequently  is  this  counsel  given,  where  only  daily  toil  produces 
daily  bread  !  Few  worked  harder  than  Scott,  and  noae  harder  than  Southey.  To 
Southey,  however,  mental  labour  was  an  absolute  necessity ;  a  year  of  illness  such  as 
most  men  have  to  suffer  during  life  would  have  inevitably  brought  that  which  most  of 
all  things  terrified  him — debt.  Of  course  he  "overworked"  himself;  of  course  we 
all  do,  whose  incomes  are  precarious,  determined  not  only  by  the  fancy  of  the  pubhc, 
but  by  a  score  of  circumstances,  on  any  one  of  which  depends  life — the  bfe  of  the 
"man  of  letters  by  profession."  The  caution,  "Do  not  overwork  yourself,"  to  such 
men  is  something  like  the  prescription  of  port  wine  daily  to  an  artisan  whose  wages 
are  twenty  shillings  a  week. 

The  prime  minister,  however,  had  the  happiness  to  augment  his  pension  to  £500 
a  year.  That  independence  came  somewhat  late  ;  it  was  the  sunshine  when  the  day 
was  closing  in,  but  it  dispelled  the  clouds  that  otherwise  would  have  darkened  its 
decline.  He  had  passed  his  sixtieth  year,  having  known  but  one  great  sorrow,  the 
loss  of  his  darling  son,  Herbert : 

"  In  whose  life  I  lived,  in  wliom  I  saw 
My  better  part  transmitted  and  improved." 

The  "  common  lot"  had  been  his,  but  troubles  were  now  gathering  with  age.  In 
1834  his  beloved  wife  was  placed  in  a  lunatic  asylum,  in  the  vain  hope  that  her 
restoration  might  be  surer  there  than  at  home.  It  had  pleased  God  to  visit  him  with 
the  "  severest  of  all  domestic  afflictions,  those  alone  excepted  into  which  guilt  enters." 
He  seldom  afterwards  quitted  the  retirement  in  which  he  lived  at  Greta  Hall. 

In  November,  1837,  his  wife,  Edith  Southey,  died.  It  was,  as  he  writes  to  his 
old  friend  Cottle,  "  a  change  from  life  to  death,  from  death  to  life."  "  While  she  was 
with  me  I  did  not  feel  the  weight  of  years  ;  my  heart  continued  young,  and  my  spirits 
retained  their  youthful  buoyancy."  "  We  have  been  married  two-and-forty  years, 
and  a  more  affectionate  and  devoted  wife  no  man  was  ever  blessed  with."  "After 
two-and-forty  years  of  marriage,  no  infant  was  ever  more  void  of  offence  towards  God 
and  man.  I  never  knew  her  to  do  an  unkind  act,  nor  say  an  unkind  word."  His 
wife  was  his  "  note-taker  ;  "  her  pen  had  been  his  ever-ready  help  before  her  daughters 
grew  up  to  aid  him.     She  made  extracts  for  him ;  and  therefore  he  writes,  in  a  letter 


198  MEMORIES. 


after  her  death, — "  She  will  continue  to  be  my  helpmate  as  long  as  I  live  and  retain 
my  senses."  *' 

Two  years  afterwards,  when  his  threshold  rarely  echoed  familiar  footsteps,  when 
his  children  and  friends  had  gradually  departed  for  homes  on  earth  or  homes  in 
heaven,  he  resolved  on  marrying  his  very  dear  friend,  Caroline  Anne  Bowles.  They 
were  married  on  the  5th  of  June,  1839,  at  Boldre  Church,  and  he  returned  to  Greta 
Hall  with  her  in  the  August  following,  f 

She  came  to  his  home  when  it  was  all  but  desolate  ;  when  his  vigour  had 
declined  ;  when  he  could  no  more  take  the  long  walks  that  gave  him  health  and 
strength  ;  when  his  mind  was  clouded,  and  when  his  days  could  be  but  few ;  when 
he  was  indeed  "  shaken  at  the  root." 

I  knew  Caroline  Bowles  before  she  became  the  wife  of  Southey.  She  had  long 
passed  the  middle  age,  was  not  handsome,  though  with  a  very  gentle  manner  and 
gracious  countenance  ;  a  loveable,  because  a  good,  woman.  Her  books,  though  now 
seldom  read,  are  not  forgotten.  She  was  worthy  to  be  the  companion,  the  friend, 
the  wife,  of  Robert  Southey.  She  has  been  silent  as  to  his  latter  days ;  but  it  is 
certain,  from  the  pious  nature  of  her  mind,  that  she  led  him  onward  towards  the 
celestial  city  to  which  he  was  hastening. 

"  No  sacrifice,"  writes  one  of  the  friends  of  Caroline  Bowles  (in  a  contribution  to 
the  Athenmim),  "could  have  been  greater  than  the  one  she  was  induced  to  make. 
It  can  be  placed  beyond  all  doubt  that  she  was  fully  prepared  for  the  distressing 
calamity  which  impended  over  both.  .  .  .  She  consented  to  unite  herself  to  him, 
with  a  sure  prevision  of  the  awful  condition  of  mind  to  which  he  would  shortly  be 
reduced,  from  the  purest  motive  that  could  actuate  a  woman  in  forming  such  a  con- 
nection— namely,  the  faint  hope  that  her  devotedness  might  enable  her,  if  not  to 
avert  the  catastrophe,  to  acquire  at  least  a  legal  title  to  minister  to  the  sufferer's 
comforts,  and  watch  over  the  few  sad  years  of  existence  that  might  remain  to  him." 

That  was  indeed  true  heroism.  Her  high  and  holy  purpose  was  accomplished ; 
and  we  may  be  very  sure  she  had  her  reward. 


*  It  was  at  that  time  of  trial  he  quoted  a  passage  from  "  some  old  author  : " — "  Bemember,  under  any  affliction 
that  Time  is  short,  and  that  although  your  cross  may  be  heavy,  you  have  not  far  to  bear  it." 

■i-  "  We  have  been  acquainted  more  than  twenty  years,  and  that  acquaintance  was  matured  into  friendship, 
at  a  time  when  no  possibUHy  that  it  might  ever  proceed  farther  could  have  been  looked  to  on  either  pai-t.  I  am  in 
my  sixty- fifth  year,  Caroline  Bowles  in  her  fifty-second  year.  I  shall  have  for  my  constant  companion  one  who  will 
render  my  fireside  cheerful,  and  save  me  fi-om  that  forlorn  feeling  against  which  even  my  spirits,  buoyant  as  they 
are  by  constitution,  might  not  always  have  been  able  to  bear  me  up."  Southey,  so  long  ago  as  the  21st  Februaiy, 
1829,  prefaced  his  poem  of  "  All  for  Love  "  with  a  tender  address,  that  is  now,  perhaps,  worth  reprinting  :— 

"  To  Caroline  Bowles. 

"  Could  I  look  forward  to  a  distant  day, 
With  hope  of  building  some  elaborate  lay, 
Then  would  I  wait  till  worthier  strains  of  mine, 
Might  have  inscribed  thy  name,  O  Caroline ! 
For  I  would,  while  my  voice  is  heard  on  earth, 
Bear  witness  to  thy  genius  and  thy  worth. 
But  we  have  been  both  taught  to  feel  with  fear 
How  frail  the  tenure  of  existence  here ; 
What  unforeseen  calamities  prevent, 
Alas !  how  oft,  the  best  resolved  intent ; 
And,  therefore,  this  poor  volume  I  address 
To  thee,  dear  friend  and  sister  poetess ! 

"  EOBBBT  SOUIHET. 

"Keswick,  Feh.  21,1829." 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY.  igq 


I  have  preserved  a  letter  from  Caroline  Bowles  to  Mrs.  Hall,  dated  July  2,  1830, 
■which  contains  passages  that  may  illustrate  her  character  :  — 

"  At  present  the  little  energy  restored  by  partial  restoration  to  health  is  all  in  requisition  to 
answer  claims  of  this  '  worlc-a-day  world'  ■which  may  not  be  pat  otf  till  a  more  convenient 
season  ;  and,  then,  I  must  confess,  that  when  I  can  command  my  own  time,  and  a  gleam  of  sun- 
shine is  vouchsafed  to  us,  I  am  more  restless  within  walls  than  a  squirrel  in  his  cage,  and  grudge 
every  moment  not  spent  in  the  garden,  or  in  a  little  open  carriage,  or  on  the  back  of  a  certain 
palfrey,  Miniken  yclept,  whose  diminutive  proportions  would  just  fit  him  for  a  charger  to  Queen 
Mab,  and  who  seems  to  have  as  much  taste  for  scrambling  with  me  over  hill,  dale,  and  common, 
as  if  he  was  still  roaming  his  native  isle.  Judge  by  this  very  uncallcd-ioT  history  of  my  ww-literary 
pursuits  and  rambling  propensities  whether  I  cannot  sympathise  with  your  longing  for  green  fields 
and  babbling  brooks.  .  .  .  T  might  well  expect  to  be  foigotten,  except  by  the  few  who  love  me 
for  myself,  and  expect  no  return  but  of  afi'eclion."* 

The  "enemy" — so  Death  is  wrongfully  called — was  creeping  towards  him. 
"  His  movements  were  slower  ;  he  was  subject  to  frequent  fits  of  absence  ;  there  was 
an  indecision  in  his  manner,  and  an  unsteadiness  in  his  step,  wholly  unusual  to  him." 
"  He  sometimes  lost  his  way  even  in  familiar  places  ;  "  "in  some  of  the  last  notes  he 
wrote,  the  letters  were  formed  like  those  of  a  child."  "His  mind,"  writes  one  of 
his  friends,  "was  beautiful  even  in  its  debility  ;"  the  river  was  not  turbulent  as  it 
joined  the  ocean.  In  1840  Wordsworth  describes  a  visit  to  his  old  friend  of  half  a 
century  : — "  He  did  not  recognise  me  till  he  was  told.  Then  his  eyes  flashed  for  a 
moment  with  their  former  brightness,  but  he  sank  into  the  state  in  which  I  found 
him,  patting  with  both  hands  his  books  affectionately  like  a  child." 

In  the  malady  of  his  departed  wife  he  had  learned  what  a  woeful  thing  it  is 

"  When  the  poor  flesh  surviving  doth  entomb 
The  reasonahle  soul ;". 

and  not  long  afterwards  he  was  doomed  himself  to  feel  that  terrible  afHiction. 

It  was  a  sad  sight  to  see  the  aged  and  venerable  man  "  shaken  at  the  root," 
"  irritable  as  he  had  never  been  before,"  "  losing  his  way  in  well-known  places,"  bis 
form  thin  and  shrunk,  the  fire  gone  from  his  eyes,  or  shining  dimly  as  a  light  going 
out,  and  the  bright  intelligence  fading  from  the  still  fine  features;  growing  worse  and 
worse,  with  brief  intervals  of  consciousness,  during  which,  with  "  placid  languor," 
sometimes,  apparently,  torpor,  he  hopelessly  and  helplessly  saw  the  shadow  approach ; 
still  "mechanically"  moving  about  his  books,  taking  down  one  and  then  another, 
looking  upon  them  with  relics  of  old  love,  and  mournfully  murmuring  as  he  put  them 

by,- 

"  Memory,  memory,  where  art  thou  gone  \ " 

So  passed  the  last  three  or  four  years  of  his  life,  giving  the  clearest  proof  that  he 
could  do  nothing,  because  nothing  was  done.  There  had  been  no  sudden  shock,  no 
bodily  ailment ;  the  mind  was  simply  worn  out  by  the  wear  and  tear  of  life — fifty 
years  of  labour,  as  "by  profession  a  man  of  letters  !  " 

On  the  21st  of  March,  1843,  he  died,  in  the  sixty-eighth  year  of  his  age,  "  in  sure 
and  certain  hope  of  a  glorious  resurrection." 

*  In  1852  Caroline  Southey  received  one  of  the  Crown  pensions— £200  a  year — "in  consideration  of  her  late 
husband's  eminent  literary  merits ;"  and  in  1861  Miss  Kate  Southey  received  a  pension — £100  a  year — "  on  account 
of  the  important  services  rendered  by  her  father  to  English  literature."    Mrs.  Southey  died  in  1854. 


MEMORIES. 


1 


On  the  23rd  of  March,  1843,  he  was  buried  in  the  churchyard  of  Crosthwaite, 
where  his  wife  Edith,  four  of  his  children,  and  several  of  his  dear  household,  rela- 
tives and  friends,  had  been,  or  have  since  been,  laid.  The  tombstone  contains  their 
names,  the  dates  of  their  births  and  deaths — no  more.*  Here  "  the  dead  speak,  and 
give  admonition  to  the  living."  His  funeral  was  private.  Except  the  members  of 
his  family,  there  were  but  two  strangers.  A  white-headed  man,  older  by  four  years 
than  the  departed,  walked  over  the  mountains  that  gloomy  and  stormy  day,  to  offer 
a  last  tribute  of  affection  on  his  grave  ;  it  was  the  venerable  poet,  William  Words- 
worth, who   leaned   upon   the   arm  of  his  son-in-law,   Quillinan — a  most  estimable 


THE   GRAVE   OF   SOUTHEY. 

gentleman  and  true  poet,  who  survived  but  a  short  time  his  illustrious  father-in-law. 
It  was  told  to  me,  by  one  who  was  present,  that  as  the  solemn  words  were  uttered, 
"Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust,"  a  ray  of  unlooked-for  sunshine  suddenly  fell  upon  the 
grave;  the  rain  ceased,  the  wind  lulled,  and  at  the  instant,  two  small  bhds  sung 
from  an  adjacent  tree.     In  a  poem  entitled  "  The  Funeral  of  Southey,"  written  by 

*  The  family  have  all  passed  away  from  Kesvriok  ;  and  only  memory  and  these  churchyard  graves  remain  to 
preserve,  as  they  veill  do  for  ever,  the  renowned  name  in  that  most  beautiful  district.  Katherine  Southey,  who  was 
horn  at  Greta  Hall,  died  at  Lairthwaite  Cottage,  Keswick,  on  the  12th  of  August,  1864,  and  was  laid  by  the  side  of 
her  kindred.  She  was  aged  fifty-four.  Her  aunt,  Mrs.  Lovell  (one  of  the  three  sisters,  Mrs.  Coleridge  and  Mrs. 
Southey  being  the  others),  died  there  but  a  few  years  previously,  at  the  patriarchal  age  of  ninety-one,  having  been 
a  vndow  sixty-six  years,  and  nearly  all  that  time  a  cherished  inmate  in  the  dwelling  of  the  Laui'eate,  and,  after  his 
death,  in  that  of  his  daughter  Katherine. 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


Mr.  Quillinan,  he  notices  this,  which  we  may  accept  as  a  striking  and  most  interest- 
ing fact : — 

"  Heedless  of  the  driving  rain, 
Fearless  of  the  mourning  train, 
Perched  upon  the  tremhling  stem, 
They  sung  the  Poet's  requiem." 

Posthumous  honours  were  accorded  to  the  poet.  There  is  a  bust  in  the  Poets' 
Corner  of  Westminster  Abbey,  and  another  in  the  cathedral  of  the  city  whose  chiefest 
glory  it  is — or  ought  to  be — that  Bristol  was  his  place  of  birth. 

"A  simple  slab  marks  where  his  ashes  lie, 

Fast  by  the  church  ;  while,  from  the  sculptor's  art, 
Within  the  aisle  his  semblance  meets  the  eye  ; 
The  marble  sleeper  makes  the  stranger  start." 


^-C^^ 


\7  y 

VIEW   OF   KESWICK. 


The  monument  in  Crosthwaite  Church  is  a  fine  and  very  beautiful  achievement  of 
sculptured  art :  a  recumbent  figure,  in  pure  white  marble,  without  a  spot ;  and  the 
sculptor.  Lough,  by  a  happy  inspiration,  has  preserved,  with  singular  fidelity,  the 
features  and  expression  of  the  poet,*  as  he  describes  him  in  placid  and  tranquil 
sleep.  On  the  base  are  inscribed  the  lines  by  Wordsworth  I  have  elsewhere  quoted. 
Two  of  his  own  might  also  be  placed  there  :  he 

"  teacheth  in  his  songs 
The  love  of  all  things  lovely,  all  things  pure." 


*  It  ought  to  be  recorded  that  the  commission  fo  the  sculptor  was  for  a  work  in  Caen  stone  ;  but  Mr.  Lough  (so , 
writes  the  poet's  son),  "  with  characteristic  liberality,  executed  it  in  white  marble  at  a  considerable  sacrifice." 


MEMORIES. 


1 


The  sculptor,  John  Graham  Lough,  claims  from  me  a  few  words  of  memory :  he 
died,  at  a  good  old  age,  in  April,  1876.  Born,  at  the  end  of  the  last  century,  of  humble 
parents,  and  with  little  aid  beyond  his  own  perseverance,  energy,  and  ability,  to 
achieve  success,  he  raised  himself  to  a  very  honourable  position  as  a  sculptor,  though 
he  may  not  have  quite  realised  the  expectations  the  painter  Haydon  entertained  of 
his  genius,  and  which  he  recorded  in  his  "  Life."  Mr.  Lough  was  the  son  of  a  small 
farmer  liviug  at  Greenhead,  near  Hexham,  Northumberland,  and,  when  a  boy,  is 
said  "  to  have  foHowed  the  plough,  and  sheared  the  corn."  But  even  then  he  showed 
a  taste  for  drawing,  and  yet  more  for  modelling,  "  always  making  figures  in  clay  with 
his  hands,"  as  he  himself  told  Haydon.  He  enjoyed  large  patronage  from  the  com- 
mencement of  his  career  to  its  close. 

In  private  life  no  artist  has  been  more  largely  esteemed  and  respected.  His  per- 
sonal friends  were  numerous,  including  many  of  the  most  renowned  men  and  women 
of  the  age  in  science,  art,  and  letters.  There  frequently  assembled  at  his  house  per- 
sons not  only  high  in  rank,  but  renowned  for  intellectual  and  social  worth  ;  their 
regard  for  the  man  was  great,  as  was  their  admiration  of  his  genius  as  an  artist.  He  was 
estimable  in  all  the  relations  of  life  ;  he  was  essentially  in  manner,  as  well  as  in  mind, 
a  gentleman  ;  his  many  acquaintances  were  all  personal  friends  :  and  few  men  have 
lived  who  will  be  more  regretted  by  a  very  large  circle.  His  widow,  a  sister  of  the 
distinguished  surgeon,  Sir  James  Paget,  survives  him  ;  but  he  leaves  no  son  to 
inherit  his  name  and  his  honours.  A  more  estimable  gentleman  has  rarely  graced 
the  annals  of  art. 

I  have  intimated  that  my  personal  memory  of  the  great  and  good  man — Robert 
Southey — who  was  so  "lovely  in  his  life  "-^is  but  limited.  I  knew  him  only  in 
London,  in  1830,  when  he  was  in  the  wane  of  life,  yet  not  older  than  fifty-six ;  even 
then  he  had  been  forty  years,  or  very  nearly  so,  an  author — living  "  laborioils  days  " 
from  his  youth  upwards.  I  met  him  more  than  once  at  the  house  of  Allan  Cunning- 
ham, whom  he  cordially  greets  in  one  of  his  poems, — 

"Allan,  true  child  of  Scotland,  thou  who  art 
So  oft  in  spirit  on  thy  native  hills." 

Though  I  can  add  nothing  of  worth  to  the  portrait  I  have  given,  I  may  recall 
him  as  he  appeared  to  me.  He  was  the  very  heau  ideal  of  a  poet — singularly  impressive, 
tall,  somewhat  slight,  slow  in  his  movements,  and  very  dignified  in  manner,  with  the 
eye  of  an  hawk,  and  with  sharp  features,  and  an  aquiline  nose,  that  carried  the 
similitude  somewhat  further.  His  forehead  was  broad  and  high,  his  eyebrows  dark, 
his  hair  profuse  and  long,  rapidly  approaching  white.  I  can  see  vividly,  even  now, 
his  graceful  and  winning  smile.  To  the  commonest  observer  he  was  obviously  a 
man  who  had  lived  more  with  books  than  men,  whose  converse  had  chiefly  been  with 
"the  mighty  minds  of  old,"  whose  "days,"  whose  "thoughts,"  whose  "hopes," 
were,  as  he  tells  us  they  Avere,  "  with  the  dead." 

In  the  few  and  brief  conversations  I  had  with  him,  he  impressed  me — as,  indeed, 
he  did  every  person  who  was,  even  for  an  hour,  in  his  company — with  the  conviction 
that  he  elevated  the  profession  of  letters  not  only  by  knowledge  acquired  and  distri- 
buted, not  alone  by  the  wisdom  of  his  career  and  the  integrity  of  his  life,  but  by 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


203 


manners  unassuming  and  unexacting,  and  by  a  condescending  gentleness  of  demeanour 
that,  if  not  humility  in  the  common  sense  of  the  term,  arose  out  of  generous  con- 
sideration and  large  charity. 

Not  long  ago  I  made  a  pilgrimage  to  the  house  in  which  Southey  lived,  and  to 
the  grave  in  v^hich  he  is  buried.  I  had  for  my  pleasant  and  profitable  companion  [to 
his  graceful  pencil  I  am  chiefly  indebted  for  the  illustrations  that  accompany  this 
Memory]  the  artist  Jacob  Thompson,  who  knew  the  poet,  and  knew  also  his  neighbour, 
Wordsworth. 

Greta  Hall,  for  nearly  half  a  century  his  residence — his  "  loophole  of  retreat  " — 
stands  on  a  slight  elevation  above  the  river  Greta,  and  close  to  its  confluence  with 
the  Derwent.*     From  a  picturesque  bridge — Greta  Bridge — a  view  of  the  house  is 


GRETA   EUIDGE. 


obtained.  It  was  originally  two  houses,  converted  by  the  poet  into  one.  It  consists 
of  many  rooms,  all  small,  except  what  was  the  poet's  library— his  library  in  chief, 
that  is  to  say,  for  every  apartment  was  lined  with  books.  "  Books,"  writes  Words- 
worth, "were  his  passion  :" — "Books  were  his  passion,  as  imndering  was  mine  ; " 
and,  he  adds,  circumstances  might  have  made  the  one  a  Benedictine  monk,  in  whose 
monastery  was  a  library,  and  the  other  a  pedlar,  such  as  he  describes  his  "Wanderer" 
to  have  been.  Adjoining  it  is  the  chamber  in  which  he  died,  or  rather,  in  which  his 
spirit  was  released  from  its  earthly  tabernacle,  to  companion  the  angels  and  pure 


*  The  river  Derwent  connects  the  two  lakes— Derwentwater  and  Bassenthwaite. 
and  together  they  make  their  way  into  the  lake  (Bassenthwaite). 


The  Greta  joins  the  Derweut, 


204  MEMORIES. 


1 


spirits  who  had  gone  before,  and  to  be  with  the  Master  he  had  long  served.     He 
there  had,  to  borrow  a  line  from  his  friend  Coleridge, 

"  Found  life  in  death." 

A  garden  surrounds  the  house  ;  there  is  a  sloping  lawn  in  front ;  and  immediately 
facing  the  entrance  are  two  "  narrow-leaved  "  maple-trees,  planted  by  the  poet.  Let 
us  hope  that  no  thoughtless  or  heedless  hand  will  ever  remove  them.  Behind  is  a 
thick  growth  of  shrubs  and  underwood,  leading  down  to  an  embrasure  of  the  river ; 
along  the  bank  is  the  Poet's  Walk,  at  the  end  of  which  was  a  seat  beneath  an  elm- 
tree,  where  he  often  sat  looking  across  the  stream  upon  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  friary 
(now  a  barn)  and  the  mountains  of  old  Skiddaw  and  Blencathra. 

La  front  of  the  house,  however,  the  grandest  view  is  obtained.  It  commands 
Derwentwater  (the  loveliest  of  all  the  English  lakes  :  "  I  would  not,"  writes  Southey, 
"  exchange  Derwentwater  for  the  Lake  of  Geneva  "),  on  which  look  down  the  loftiest 
and  the  most  picturesque  of  the  mountains  of  Cumberland.  From  every  one  of  the 
windows  there  is  a  glorious  prospect.  Within  ken  is  the  "  gorgeous  confusion  of 
Borrowdale,  just  revealing  its  sublime  chaos  through  the  narrow  vista  of  its  gorge." 
There  is  bleak  Skiddaw,  with  "  its  fine  black  head,"  that  extorted  a  compliment  even 
from  London-loving  Charles  Lamb.  There  is  Souter  Fell,  where  ghosts  have  been 
seen  in  troops  in  the  broad  light  of  day.  There  is  the  Druids'  Temple,  little  more 
than  a  mile  from  Keswick,  at  the  foot  of  Saddleback, — old  Blencathra, — near  the 
entrance  to  St,  John's  Vale,  the  stones  of  which  "  no  person  can  count  with  a  like 
result  as  to  number."  There  is  Derwentwater,  seen  from  so  many  points,  with  its 
traditions  of  the  young  lord  who  was  "  out  in  the  fifteen,"  and  died  on  a  scafibld  on 
Tower  Hill.  You  may  ascend  the  "  Lady's  Kake,"  up  which  his  lady  fled  for  shelter ; 
and  if  you  listen  calmly,  you  may  hear  the  distant  fall  of  Lodore.  From  his  window 
he  saw,  as  he  wrote,  not  only  Derwent,  "  that  under  the  hills  reposed,"  but  other 
views  that  were  to  him  "  perpetual  benedictions."  Thus  he  describes  some  of 
them : — 

"  'Twas  at  that  sober  honr  when  the  light  of  day  is  receding, 
And  from  surrounding  things  the  hues  wherewith  day  has  adorned  them 
Fade  like  the  hopes  of  youth  till  the  beauty  of  youth  is  departed  : 
Pensive,  though  not  in  thought,  I  stood  at  the  window  beholding 
Mountain  and  lake  and  vale  ;  tlie  valley  disrobed  of  its  verdui'e ; 
Derwent  retaining  yet  from  eve  a  glassy  reflection, 
Where  his  expanded  breast,  then  still  and  smooth  as  a  miiTor, 
Under  the  woods  reposed  ;  the  hills  that,  calm  and  majestic, 
Lifted  their  heads  into  the  silent  sky,  from  far  Glaramara, 
Bleacrag,  and  Maidenmawr,  to  Griesdale  and  westernmost  Wythrop  ; 
Dark  and  distinct  they  rose.    The  clouds  had  gathered  above  them, 
High  in  the  middle  air  huge  pui-ple  pOlo-wy  masses, 
While  in  the  west  beyond  was  the  last  pale  tint  of  the  twilight. 
Green  as  the  stream  m  the  glen,  whose  pure  and  chrysolite  waters 
Flow  o'er  a  schistous  bed,  and  serene  as  the  age  of  the  righteous. 
Earth  was  hush'd  and  still :  all  motion  and  sound  were  suspended; 
Neither  man  was  heard,  bird,  beast,  nor  humming  of  insect- 
Only  the  voice  of  the  Greta,  heard  only  when  all  is  in  stillness." 

I  borrow  a  description  of  the  adjacent  scenery  from  William  Howitt's  excellent 

and    interesting   volumes  —  "Homes    and   Haunts    of    the    most    Eminent    British 

Poets  :  " — 

"  The  situation  of  Southey's  house,  faking  all  into  consideration,  is  exceeded  b}"^  few  in  England. 
It  is  agreeably  dibtaut  from  the  road  and  the  little   town,  and  stands  in  a  fine  open  valley  sur- 


ROBERT  SOUTH EY. 


20S 


rounded  ty  hills  of  the  noWest  and  most  diversified  character.  From  your  stand  on  the  Greta 
Bridge,  looking  oyer  the  house,  your  eye  falls  on  the  group  of  mountains  behind  it.  The  lofty  hill 
of  Latrig  lifts  its  steep  green  back,  with  its  larch  plantations  clothing  one  edge,  and  scatteied  in 
groups  over  the  other.  Stretching  away  to  the  left,  rise  the  still  loftier  range  and  gaunt  masses 
of  Skiddaw,  with  its  intervening  dells  and  ravines,  and  summits  often  lost  in  their  canopy  of 
shadowy  clouds.  Between  the  feet  of  Skiddaw  and  Greta  Bridge  lie  pleasant  knolls  and  fields, 
with  scattered  villas  and  cottages  and  Crosthwaite  Church.  On  your  right  hand  is  the  town,  and 
behind  it  green  swelling  fields  again,  and  the  more  distant  inclosing  chain  ot  hills.  If  you  then 
turn  your  back  on  the  house  and  view  the  scene  which  is  presented  from  the  house,  you  find  your- 
self in  the  presence  of  the  river,  hurrying  away  towaids  the  assemblage  of  beautifully- varied 
mountains  which  encompass  magnificently  the  Lake  of  Derwent water." 

Yes,  South ey  perhaps  as  fully  as  "Wordsworth  enjoyed  the  beautiful  and  glorious 
scenery  of  "the  English  lakes."     The  one  wrote  much  concerning  them;  the  other 


THE  FRIAKS'    WALK. 


said  little  about  them  in  verse  ;  but  who  can  doubt  that  they  influenced  the  mind, 
heart,  and  soul  of  the  one  as  fully  as  they  did  the  mhid,  heart,  and  soul  of  the 
other  ? 

The  two  poets,  and  others  who  were  their  associates  in  this  locality,  have  added 
deep  interest  to  the  charms  it  derives  from  nature ;  and  for  all  time  the  places  they 
have  commemorated  will  be  "delights"  to  all  visitors  who  dwell  even  for  a  day 
among  the  mountains  and  rivers,  the  hills  and  dells,  of  Westmoreland. 

The  walks  that  were  familiar  to  the  poet  were  in  all  directious  ;  some  at  a  distance 


from  his  home.  He  walked  ever  with  his  head  raised,  thrown  back  somewhat,  looking 
upwards,  and  was  rarely  seen  without  a  book  in  his  hand.*  Of  these  walks,  his 
favourite  was  to  "The  Friars'  Crag,"  or  Walk, — a  promontory  that  overhangs  Der- 
wentwater,  a  short  way  from  Keswick.  It  was  of  this  spot  he  said, — "  If  I  had 
Aladdin's  lamp,  or  Fortunatus's  purse,  I  would  here  build  myself  a  house."     The 


^>,»^  cM:'i. 


THE   PALL   OF  LODOBK. 


erag which  I  have  pictured — is  said  to  have  derived  its  name  from  the  monks  of 

Lindisfarn  coming  to  it  once  a  year  to  receive  the  blessing  of  St.  Herbert.     The  view 
hence  is  very  lovely.     Close  to  the  foot  of  the  crag  the  rocks  are  washed  by  the 


*  James  Hogg,  -writing  of  Southey,  says  :— "  Deep  thought  is  strongly  marked  in  his  dark  eye  ;  but  there  is  a 
defect  in  his  eveli'ds  for  these  he  has  no  power  of  raising,  so  that  when  he  looks  towards  the  top  of  one  of  his 
romnn'ic  mountains,' one  would  think  he  was  looking  at  the  zenith."  Although  he  adds,  "  Tliis  peculiarity  is  what 
will  most  strike  eveiy  stranger  in  the  appearance  of  the  accomplished  Laureate,"  I  do  not  find  the  "  defect "  referred 
to  by  any  other  writer  ;  and  certainly  did  not  observe  it  myself. 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


207 


waters  of  tlie  lake,  tlae  whole  expanse  of  which  is  seen,  with  its  picturesque  islands. 
On  the  right  the  eye  takes  in  the  sunny  slopes  of  "  the  Catbells  " — scarcely  to  be 
called  mountains  when  compared  with  mighty  Scafell  in  the  distance — while  beneath 
them  lies  the  fairest  of  all  the  islands,  the  island  dedicated  to  St.  Herbert,  f 

At  the  head  of  the  lake,  standing  like  a  sentinel  guarding  the  entrance  to  Borrow- 
dale,  is  Castle  Crag,  and  on  its  left  lies  the  beautiful  Fall  of  Lodore,  immortalised  by 
Southey  in  some  quaint  verses  which  are  known  to  most  readers  : — 

"And  dasMng  and  flashing,  and  splashing  and  crashing, 
*        *        *        With  a  mighty  uproar, 
And  this  way  the  water  conies  down  at  Lodore." 


CEOSTHWAITK   CHURCH. 


Lodore  Waterfall  is  about  three  miles  from  Keswick,  on  the  road  to  Borrowdale, 
between  two  towering  cliffs  :  one  on  the  left,  Gowdar  Crag ;  on  the  right.  Shepherd's 
Crag.  The  peiyendicular  height  through  which  the  water  descends  is  said  to  be 
150  feet  (the  whole  height  of  the  fall  is  360  feet).  The  crags  on  either  side  are 
covered  with  trees  overhanging  the  water ;  the  oak,  ash,  birch,  holly,  and  even  the 
wild  rose,  flourish  in  wanton  luxuriance.  The  foaming  cataract,  as  it  bounds  over 
the  huge  rocks,  is  to  be  seen  more  than  three  miles  off.  The  fall  runs  into  the  lake, 
and  the  noise  which  it  makes  can  be  heard  miles  away.  There  is  a  pretty  rustic 
bridge  over  it,  and  at  its  foot  stands  a  little  hotel,  once  an  ancient  hostelry,  but  now 
much  enlarged  to  accommodate  the  many  thousands  that  annually  visit  the  place. 

+  Bede  tells  us  that  the  saint  went  once  a  year  to  see  St.  Cuthbert,  of  Earn  Island,  and  to  hear  from  him  the 
words  of  everlasting  life.  As  thev  sat  together  one  day,  St.  Cuthbert  told  his  friend  that  he  felt  his  time  was  coming 
when  his  spirit  would  depart  hence.  St.  Herbert,  in  his  agony  of  grief,  prayed  to  God  that  he  nught  not  suiTive  his 
teacher.    Tradition  has  it  that  the  friends  both  died  on  the  same  day,  even  at  the  same  hour  (a.d.  687;. 


But  the  grand  and  glorious  scenery  of  the  Lakes  may  be  adverted  to  more  fitly 
when  I  recall  to  memory  the  great  High  Priest  of  Nature,  Wordsworth. 

An  illustrative  anecdote  was  told  me  by  the  sexton  of  Crosthwaite  Church,  who, 
however,  had  little  to  say  of  the  poet,  except  that  he  seldom  saw  him  smile.  He  met 
him  often  in  his  walks,  but  he  seemed  pensive,  full  of  thought,  and  looked  as  if  his 
life  was  elsewhere  than  on  earth.  The  anecdote  is  this.  Southey  had  a  great  dislike 
to  be  "looked  at ;"  and  although  very  regular  in  his  attendance  at  church,  he  would 
stay  away  when  he  knew  there  were  many  tourists  in  the  neighbourhood.  One 
Sunday,  two  strangers  who  had  a  great  desire  to  see  the  poet  besought  the  sexton  to 
point  him  out  to  them.  The  sexton,  knowing  that  this  must  be  done  secretly,  said, 
"  I  will  take  you  up  the  aisle,  and,  in  passing,  touch  the  pew  in  which  he  sits."  He 
did  so,  and  no  doubt  the  strangers  had  "  a  good  stare."  A  few  days  after,  the  sexton 
met  Southey  in  the  street  of  Keswick.  The  poet  looked  somewhat  sternly  at  him, 
said,  "  Don't  do  it  again,'"  and  passed  on,  leaving  the  conscience-stricken  sexton  to 
ponder  over  the  "  crime  "  in  which  he  had  been  detected  by  the  poet. 

The  graveyard  of  Crosthwaite  is  a  lonely  graveyard,  in  the  midst  of  mountains, 
commanding  an  open  view  of  Derwentwater,  on  which  the  mountains  Blencathra  and 
Skiddaw  look  down.  There  are  few  human  dwellings  near  at  hand,  and  even  those 
are  being  hidden  by  intervening  trees.  The  church  is  very  ancient — more  than  seven 
centuries  have  passed  since  its  foundations  were  laid  :  it  was  not  long  ago  thoroughly 
restored  by  a  liberal  "  neighbour." 

In  1816,  Southey,  in  describing  the  churchyard,  which  thirty  years  afterwards 
was  to  be  his  resting-place,  writes  : — '*  The  churchyard  is  as  open  to  the  eye  and  to 
the  breath  of  heaven  as  if  it  were  a  Druids'  place  of  meeting."  A  wall  has  since  been 
placed,  but  it  is  looked  over, — upon  the  lake  and  on  the  mountains,  "the  everlasting 
hills  "  of  which  he  somewhere  speaks. 

And  in  that  calm  and  isolated  graveyard  lie  the  mortal  remains  of  Robert 
Southey, — 

"  He  who  sung 
Of  Thalaba  the  wild  and  wondrous  song ;" 

he  who,  in  so  many  ways,  inculcated  the  wisdom  of  Virtue.     If  his  prophecy  of 
himself  has  not  been  as  yet  altogether  fulfilled — 

"  Thus,  in  the  ages  which  are  past  I  live, 
And  those  which  aie  to  come  my  sure  reward  will  give," 

at  least  it  is  certain  that  he  has  received  the  justice  he  looked  for,  and  knew  to  be 
his  right. 


WALTEE  SAYAGE   LAIN^DOE. 

Few  great  men  have  been  more  earnest  and  sincere  in  friendship  than  Robert  Southey 
and  Waltek  Savage  Landor.  I  knew  Landor  in  1837,  at  Clifton,  and  had  many 
walks  with  him  over  its  health-giving  downs  ;  more  than  once  I  met  him  at  the 
"  evenings"  of  Lady  Blessington  ;  but  any  records  of  his  life   and   character  would 


WALTER    SAVAGE   LAND  OR.  209 

now  be  superfluous — all  that  one  could  desire  to  know,  and  more  than  one  would  care 
to  know,  has  been  written  of  him  by  his  friend,  John  Forster,  in  two  bulky  volumes. 
It  was  by  Forster  I  was  introduced  to  Landor,  and  by  his  counsel  I  published 
examples  of  Landor's  poetry  in  "  The  Book  of  Gems."  At  that  time  he  gave  me  a 
memoir  of  himself,  which  I  here  copy  : — 

"  Walter  Landor,  of  Ipsley  Court,  in.  the  county  of  Warwick,  married  first  Maria,  only 
daughter  and  heiress  of  J.  Wright,  Esq.,  by  whom  he  had  an  only  daughter,  married  to  her  cousin, 
Humphrey  Arden,  of  Longcroft,  in  Staffordshire  ;  secondly,  Elizaheih,  eldest  daughter  and  coheiress 
of  Ch.  Savage,  of  Tachhrook,  who  brought  above  £80,000  into  the  family.  The  eldest  of  this 
marriage  was  born  January  30th,  1775.  He  was  educated  at  Eugby.  .  Ilis  private  tutor  was 
Dr.  Sleath,  of  St.  Paul's.  When  he  had  reached  the  head  of  the  school,  he  was  too  young  for 
college,  and  was  placed  under  the  private  tuition  of  Mr.  Langley,  of  Ashbourne.  After  a  year  he 
was  entered  of  Trinity  College,  Oxford,  where  the  learned  Benwell  was  his  private  tutor.  At  the 
peace  of  Amiens  he  went  into  France,  but  returned  at  the  end  of  the  year.  In  1808,  on  the  first 
insurrection  of  Spain,  in  June,  he  joined  the  Viceroy  of  Gallicia,  Blake.  The  Madrid  Gazette  of 
August  mentions  a  gift  from  him  of  20,000  reals.  On  the  extinction  of  the  constitution  he 
returned  to  Don  P.  Cevallos  the  tokens  of  royal  approbation  in  no  very  measured  terms.*  In 
1811  he  married  Julia,  daughter  of  J.  Thuillier  de  Malaperte,  descendant  and  representative  of  J. 
Thuillier  de  Malaperte,  Baron  de  Mieuville,  First  Gentleman  of  the  Bedchamber  to  Charles  VIII. 
He  was  residing  at  Tours  when,  after  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  every  other  Englishman  to  the 
number  of  four  thousand  went  away.  He  wrote  to  Carnot  that  he  had  no  confidence  in  the 
moderation  or  honour  of  the  Emperor,  but  resolved  to  stay,  because  he  considered  the  danger  to 
be  greater  in  the  midst  of  a  broken  army.  His  house  was  the  only  one  without  a  billet.  In  the 
autumn  of  that  year  he  retired  to  Italy.  He  occupied  the  Palazzo  Medici  in  Florence,  and  then 
bought  the  celebrated  villa  of  Count  Gherardesca,  at  Fiesole,  with  its  gardens  and  two  farms, 
immediately  under  the  ancient  villa  of  Lorenzo  de  Medici.  His  visits  to  England  have  been  few 
and  short." 

In  a  subsequent  letter  he  wrote  to  me  : — 

"  I  ought  to  have  told  you  some  evil-  of  mj'self,  which  is  always  worth  having,  as  there  is 
always  a  demand  for  it  in  England  in  all  states  of  the  market.  I  was  rusticated  at  Oxford  for 
shooting  across  the  quadrangle  at  prayer-time.  I  was  guilty  of  offering  a  subscription  of  £1,000 
to  whatever  association  might  be  formed  in  Monmouthshire  in  opposition  to  the  Duke  of  Beaufort. 
At  the  same  time,  I  never  asked  one  of  my  sixty-four  tenants  at  Lantony  for  his  vote,  but  told 
them  all  to  act  according  to  their  conscience.  They  alone  could  have  turned  the  scale  in  any  con- 
tested election." 

These  remarks,  however,  do  not  bring  his  life  to  a  period  later  than  1838.  I  will 
endeavour  to  compress  into  a  few  pages  the  remainder  of  it,  although  the  whole 
comprises — dating  from  the  day  of  his  birth  to  that  of  his  death — a  period  of  eighty- 
seven  years. 

He  was  born  at  Warwick  (where  his  father  was  a  physician),  on  the  30th  of 
January,  1775.  "  Well  born  "  on  both  sides,  and  heir  to  a  large  fortune  and  a  large 
estate,  his  family  could  trace  their  descent  from  the  Norman  who  founded  it.  In 
person,  also,  he  was  liberally  endowed  by  nature  ;  handsome  in  youth,  especially  so 
in  middle  age,  and  hardly  less  so  when  he  was  far  past  the  allotted  term  of  life. 
Forster  thus  pictures  him  at  sixty  : — 

"  He  was  not  above  the  middle  stature,  but  had  a  stout,  stalwart  presence ;  walked  without  a 
stoop  ;  and  in  his  general  aspect,  particularly  the  set  and  carriage  of  Lis  head,  was  decidedly  of 
what  is  called  a  distinguished  bearing.  His  hair  was  already  silvered  grey,  and  had  retired  far 
upward  from   his  ibrehead,   which  was  wide  and  full,  but  retreating What  at  first  was 

*  "  Though  wiUing  to  aid  the  Spanish  people  in  the  assertion  of  their  liberties,  I  -mlL  have  nothing  to  do  with  a 
perjurer  and  a  traitor." 


MEMORIES. 


noticeable  in  the  broad,  white,  massive  head  were  the  full  yet  sharply-lifted  eyebrows In 

the  large  grey  eyes  there  was  a  depth  of  composed  expression  that  even  startled  by  its  contrast  to 
the  eager  restlessness  looking  out  from  the  surface  of  them  ;  and  in  the  same  variety  and  quickness 
of  transition  the  mouth  was  extremely  striking.  The  lips  that  seemed  compressed  with  unalterable 
will,  would  in  a  moment  relax  to  a  softness  more  than  feminine,  and  a  sweeter  smile  it  was  impos- 
sible to  conceive The  nose  was  never  particularly  good,  and  the  lifted  brow,  flatness  of 

cheek  and  jaw,  wide  upper  lip,  retreating  mouth  and  chin,  and  heavy  neck,  ....  were  pecu- 
liarities prominent  in  youth  and  age." 

At  a  period  long  afterwards  Forster  describes  his  "  fine  presence,  manly  voice, 
and  cordial  smile,  the  amusing  exaggerations  of  his  speech,  and  the  irresistible  con- 
tagion of  his  laugh."  In  1858  Mrs.  Barrett  Browning  wrote,  *'  If  you  could  only  see 
how  well  he  looks  in  his  curly  white  beard  ;"  and  about  the  same  time,  Mr.  Brown- 
ing, "He  has  a  beautiful  beard,  foam  white  and  soft;"  and  an  American  lady 
describes  "  his  snowy  white  hair,  and  his  beard  of  patriarchal  proportions,  his  grey 
eyes  still  keen  and  clear,  his  grand  head  not  unlike  Michael  Angelo's  Moses  ;"  and 
thus  of  him  wrote  Lady  Blessington  : — "  He  has  one  of  the  most  original  minds 
I  have  ever  encountered,  and  it  is  joined  to  one  of  the  finest  natures."  Waldo 
Emerson  wrote  thus  : — "  He  has  a  wonderful  brain,  despotic,  violent,  inexhaustible."* 

The  portrait  is  that  of  the  mind  as  well  as  the  person  ;  it  unmistakably  portrays 
the  unsettled,  stubborn,  turbulent,  and  reckless  man  who,  all  his  life  long,  professed, 
advocated,  and  acted  on  principles  that  entailed  great  misery  and  continual  self- 
reproach  ;  keeping  him  at  perpetual  war  with  his  kind — excepting  a  few  ;  but  the 
few  were  sound  in  judgment,  with  ample  means  to  estimate  at  his  worth  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  men  of  the  age. 

In  1808,  when  they  first  met  at  Bristol  (they  had  previously  corresponded,  and 
Landor  had  dedicated  to  Southey  his  "  Gebir  "  and  other  poems),  Southey  refers  to 
him  as  "  the  only  man  of  whose  praise  I  was  ambitious,  or  whose  censure  would  have 
troubled  me  ;"  and  he  adds,  "  Before  we  met  I  had  said  I  would  walk  forty  miles  to 
see  him  ;  and  having  seen  him,  I  would  gladly  walk  four  score  to  see  him  again." 
Again,  at  a  later  period  : — "  To  have  obtained  his  approbation  as  a  poet,  and  pos- 
sessed his  friendship  as  a  man,  will  be  remembered  among  the  honours  of  my  life, 
when  the  petty  enmities  of  this  generation  will  be  forgotten,  and  its  ephemeral 
reputations  shall  have  passed  away."  And  so  late  as  1844  : — "  Difi'ering  as  I  do 
from  him  in  constitutional  temper  and  in  some  serious  opinions,  he  is  yet  of  all  men 
living  the  one  with  whom  I  feel  the  most  entire  and  cordial  sympathy  of  heart  and 
mind."  It  is  Southey  also  who  pays  this  compliment  to  him  as  a  poet : — "  Landor, 
who  paints  always  with  the  finest  touch  of  truth,  whether  he  is  describing  external 
or  internal  nature." 

The  friendship  that  so  long  existed — and  always  unbroken — between  Southey 
and  Landor  is  to  me  a  mystery,  not  to  be  explained  by  the  fact  that  Southey  was  the 
first  to  do  justice  to  the  genius  of  Landor,  and  that  Landor  tendered  generous  and 
liberal  aid  to  Southey  when  he   thought  it  was  needed.     They  seem  to  have  had 

*  His  dress  was  at  times  so  shabby  that  "  servants  have  mistaken  him  for  a  beggar."  "  He  wore  his  clothes, 
like  Dominie  Sampson,  until  they  would  hardly  hold  together  ;  and  new  garments  were  left  for  him  at  his  bedside, 
which  he  would  put  on  without  discovering  the  change."  Sometimes  he  would  set  out  from  Bath  to  go  to  Coventiy, 
and  find  himself  in  Birmingham ;  he  ought  to  have  changed  trains,  but  had  not  heard  the  man  at  the  station  call  out 
the  name  of  the  place. 


WALTER   SAVAGE   LAND  OR. 


nothing  in  common  ;  perhaps  no  two  men  ever  existed  who  were  so  entirely  opposite. 
Southey  was  a  Tory,  Landor  a  Eepublican — or  worse  ;  the  one  was  provident  as  well 
as  just,  the  other  reckless  and  utterly  inconsiderate  ;  the  one  was  a  devoted  and 
affectionate  husband,  the  other  held  matrimonial  ties  to  be  very  slight  ;  the  one  was 
patient,  generous,  "  thinking  no  evil,"  abjuring  the  notion  that  revenge  was  virtue, 
the  other  petulant,  irritable,  passionate,  ever  ready  to  give  or  take  offence; — in  a 
word,  the  one  was  a  Christian,  the  other,  if  not  a  mocker,  was  a  despiser,  of  all 
creeds.  Fortunately  for  both,  perhaps,  they  rarely  met,  and  assuredly,  when  they 
did,  Landor  was  "  on  his  best  behaviour."  Southey  was  one  of  the  few  men  whose 
esteem  he  was  willing  to  make  an  effort  to  retain. 

He  had  also  much  intercourse  and  frequent  correspondence  with  Wordsworth 
— another  nature  entirely  different  from  his  ;  and  he  described  the  two  poets  of  the 
Lakes  in  a  vigorous  line — ■ 

"Serene  creators  of  immortal  things.'' 

At  one  time  he  had  intended  to  inscribe  his  "  Dialogues  "  to  Wordsworth;  he  did 
not  do  so  because  he  had  written  with  such  asperity  and  contemptuousness  of  people 
in  power,  that  a  sense  of  delicacy  would  not  permit  him  to  place  Wordsworth's  name 
before  the  volume. 

He  did  not,  however,  cherish  towards  Wordsworth  the  sentiments  he  kept 
unchanged  for  Southey.  In  a  letter  he  wrote  to  me  from  Clifton  (it  is  without  a 
date)  he  thus  gives  vent  to  his  feelings  as  regards  the  great  and  good  man  whom 
so  many  venerated  and  loved  as  well  as  honoured,  and  no  man  more  than  Robert 
Southey : — 

"  I  could  never  have  closed  my  career  more  to  my  satisfaction,  in  the  list  of  letters,  than  by 
defending  the  honour  of  my  friend  Southey  against  his  friend  Wordsworth.  In  the  midst  of  a 
friendship  of  thirty-five  years,  after  Southey  had  raised  him  into  notice  by  commending  his  poetry 
when  others  scorned  it,  Wordsworth,  in  many  conversations,  used  the  same  expressions  of  malignity 
against  him.  So  long  as  this  was  unpublished,  I  endured  it.  At  last,  it  not  only  has  been 
repeated  in  conversation  at  dinner  parties,  but  has  appeared  in  a  work  on  Coleridge.  I  judged  of 
Wordsworth  only  by  his  writings,  in  which,  among  a  good  deal  of  the  trifling  and  the  trivial, 
there  is  very  much  of  the  first  merit.  I  thought  he  had  the  wisdom  to  esteem  Southey,  and  the 
virtue  to  declare  it.  On  this  idea  I  praised  him  in  my  '  Imaginary  Conversations '  more  highly 
than  any  one  had  done  before,  and  long  afterward  I  addressed  an  Ode  to  him.  I  met  him,  and 
felt  a  pleasure  in  meeting  him.  I  even  endured  his  presence  after  I  had  had  the  proof  of  his 
malignity,  makinii-  due,  and  rather  more  than  due,  allowance  for  what  I  believed  to  be  a  sudden 
irritation.  But  when  I  heard  from  three  different  quarters  the  same  hostile  cry,  and  Jound  the 
verdict  filed  upon  record,  I  resolved  to  inflict  upon  the  ungrateful  scoundrel  a  memorable 
chastisement."* 

His  friend  Forster  is  to  his  faults  more  than  a  little  kind,  yet  he  has  discharged 
his  duty  with  justice  as  well  as  mercy,  and  the  result  is  to  picture  a  man  of  very 
lofty  genius,  but  whom  few  could  revere  and  none  could  love.  He  was  a  fierce 
democrat  from  the  time  when  he  began  to  think  and  act ;  and  though  he  was  an  old 
man  when  he  publicly  offered  ^1,000  reward  to  any  one  who  would  assassinate  the 
King  of  Naples,  he  was  a  young  man  when  at  Oxford  he  gave  a  toast  :   "  May  there 

*  Crabbe  Eobinson  has  stated  that  Wordsworth  never  read  the  utterly  grovmdless  and  bitterly  malignant 
attacks  of  Landor. 

p2 


MEMORIES. 


be  only  two  classes  of  people — the  Kepublican  and  the  paralytic."  A  perusal  of  his 
letters  confirms  the  opinion  one  is  forced  to  retain  of  him  ;  such  words  as  "  impostor," 
"  scoundrel,"  "  coward,"  "  sycophantic  ruffian,"  are  of  frequent  occurrence.* 

Mrs.  Lynn  Linton,  who  knew  him  well — was  to  him,  indeed,  during  many  years, 
as  a  daughter — admits  that  he  was  "stormy,  passionate,  and  misguided;  "  but  con- 
tends that  he  was  also  "tender,  noble,  and  aspiring;"  and  demands  that  he  be 
judged  for  his  virtues  as  well  as  his  vices. 

There  was  one  vice  he  certainly  had  not — hypocrisy. 

For  the  rest,  in  brder  to  form  a  just  idea  of  Walter  Savage  Landor,  it  should  be 
told  that  he  sold  a  fine  family  estate  to  buy  that  of  Llanthony,  in  South  Wales. f 
Some  time  he  lived  there,  and  there  he  married  (in  1811),  "a  girl  without  a  six- 
pence," but  "pretty,  graceful,  and  good-tempered."  But  he  quarrelled  with  all 
about  him — his  wife  included  (she  had  contradicted  him,  and  "given  him  his  first 
headache  ") ;  brought  actions  in  which  he  was  defeated ;  sustained  actions  in  which 
he  had  heavy  damages  to  pay ;  and  left  the  place  in  disgust,  having  chastised  his 
enemies  of  the  Cimri  sometimes  in  Latin,  sometimes  in  English,  verse  ;  made  his 
way  through  France — not  without  leaving  a  sting  there — and  settled  at  Florence. 

"My  citron  grove  at  Fiesole,"  consoled  him  for  a  thousand  vexatious  insults  and 
injuries ;  but  in  process  of  time  they  were  doubled  in  Tuscany,  and  he  returned  to 
England,  to  settle  in  Bath — "the  only  place  "  where  he  seemed  "at  home,"  and  to 
which  he  was  really  attached. 

Nearly  all  the  friends  of  his  youth  and  his  manhood  had  preceded  him  to  the  grave  ; 
his  life  of  mingled  yarn  was  drawing  to  a  close ;  he  prepared  himself  for  death,  but 
not  to  die,  like  the  old  Koman — gracefully. 

Of  his  many  reckless  acts  the  latest  was,  perhaps,  the  worst ;  at  least,  the  victim 
at  whom  he  aimed  the  blow  was  neither  king  nor  kaiser,  but  an  unarmed  woman, 
against  whom  he  wrote  a  libel  that  can  be  characterised  by  one  word  only — 
atrocious.  Every  newspaper  in  the  kingdom  reported  a  trial  that  made  many 
indignant  and  all  sorrowful.  The  result  was  a  verdict  of  guilty  and  damages  of 
£1,000.  That  sum  he  would  not,  perhaps  could  not,  pay.  Broken  in  health  and 
in  heart,  yet  indomitable  still,  like  the  mortally-wounded  lion  (to  whom  he  liked  to 
be  compared),  he  escaped  from  the  consequences  of  his  act,  and  in  the  autumn  of 
1858  was  again  at  Fiesole,  ruined  not  only  in  reputation,  but  in  purse.  But  he 
had  no  means  to  live  among  his  citron  groves,  and  so  sought  a  poor  lodging  in 
Florence,  first  taking  refuge  "  in  the  hotel  on  the  Arno  with  eighteen-pence  in  his 
pocket,"  and  depending  thenceforward  on  the  eleemosynary  helps  of  relatives  and 
friends. 

*  It  is  recorded,  that  once  an  Italian  marquis  entered  his  room  -with  his  hat  on,  Mrs.  Landor  being  present, 
Landor  went  up  to  him,  knocked  his  hat  off,  then  took  him  by  the  arm  and  turned  him  out.  He  was  charged  with 
complicity  in  the  crime  of  Orsini,  who  certainly  dined  with  him  on  the  eve  of  his  departure  to  Paris  to  assassinate 
the  Emperor.  That  charge,  at  least,  was  not  sustained  by  any  proof.  He  wrote  to  Forster  in  January,  1858.  the  day 
after  the  attempt  of  the  assassin,  but  his  sympathy  was  for  the  victims,  and  not  for  the  Emperor  who  had  escaped. 
"  IDreadful  work  !  "  he  writes,  "  horrible  crime  !  to  inflict  death  on  a  hundred  for  the  crime  of  one  !  " 

+  Some  years  afterwards,  while  looking  at  a  very  beautiful  spot  on  the  banks  of  the  Trent,  called  Carwardine 
Spring,  he  exclaimed  to  a  friend  at  his  side,  "  Why  the  deuce  did  not  I  buy  this  place,  and  build  my  home  here  instead 
of  at  that  confoimded  Llanthony  2"  "  Bather,"  said  his  friend,  "why  did  you  sell  this  place,  wliieh  had  been  in 
your  fkmily  for  centuries  1 " 


I 


WALTER    SAVAGE    LANDOR.  213 

On  the  17tli  of  September,  1864,  he  died,  and  at  length  his  perturbed  spirit  found 
a  resting-place  in  the  English  burying-ground  at  Florence. 

And  his  friend  John  Forster  is  also  gone.  During  some  years  of  his  life,  I  knew 
John  Forster  intimately ;  but  his  memory  is  not  to  me  a  pleasant  memory,  and  I 
yhall  treat  the  subject  briefly.  Between  the  years  1830  and  1836  I  was  editor  of 
the  A^ett'  Monthly  Magazine  (except  during  one  year,  when  I  acted  as  sub-editor  to 
Lytton  Bulwer,  afterwards  Lord  Lytton),  and  my  friendship  was  then  very  useful 
to  Mr.  Forster.  I  desired  that  it  should  be  so ;  for  I  estimated  highly  his  great 
abilities,  and  they  were  beneficially  employed  on  the  magazine  over  which  I  presided. 
There  was  rarely  a  week,  all  those  years,  that  he  was  not  a  welcome  guest  in  my 
house.  I  take  no  sort  of  credit  to  myself  for  having  foreseen  the  eminence  to  which 
he  was  destined  to  arrive,  and  the  fortune  it  was  his  lot  to  obtain ;  his  prospect  of 
either  was  but  dim  when  I  knew  him  first.  I  will  only  now  say  of  him  that  I  found 
him  a  friend  when  he  needed  me,  but  not  a  friend  when  I  needed  him.  I  told  him 
"  my  mind  " — almost  in  these  very  words — in  the  presence  of  Charles  Dickens — 
when  their  intimacy  was  barely  commencing — and  for  many  years  before  his  death 
we  never  exchanged  a  word. 

Forster  had  long  held  a  lucrative  appointment  as  one  of  the  Commissioners  in 
Lunacy;  and  he  married  the  widow  of  the  pubhsher,  Henry  Colburn  (Colburn's 
second  wife),  who  brought  him  considerable  wealth.  She  survives  her  second 
husband. 

And  that  is  all  I  shall  say  of  John  Forster. 


1 


SYDNEY,   LADY   MOEGAN. 

?^3N  the  year  1822  I  first  knew  Sydney,  Lady  Morgan.  I  saw  her  sitting 
in  "  the  Httle  red  room  in  Kildare  Street,  by  courtesy  called  a  boudoir  ; "  * 
and  although  the  "Wild  Irish  Girl"  was  even  then  a  woman  of  "a 
certain  age,"  she  had  so  much  of  that  natural  vivacity,  aptness  for 
repartee,  and  point  in  conversation  (often  better  than  wit),  that  made 
her  the  oracle  and  idol  of  "a  set"  in  the  Irish  metropolis,  where  others 
— not  a  few — feared  and  hated  her ;  for  her  political  bias  was  strong, 
and  her  antipathies,  strong  also,  were  seldom  withstood  or  withheld. 

She  was  never  handsome,  even  in  youth  ;  small  in  person,  and 
slightly  deformed,  there  was  about  her  much  of  ease  and  self-possession, 
but  nothing  of  grace ;  yet  she  was  remarkable  for  that  peculiar  some- 
thing— for  which  we  have  no  English  word,  but  which  the  French  express  by 
je  ne  sais  quoi — which  in  women  often  attracts  and  fascinates  more  than  mere 
personal  beauty. 

Although  it  was  said  of  Lady  Morgan  that  she  was  a  vain  woman,  had  always 
coveted  the  distinction  of  seeing  the  visiting-cards  of  lords  and  titled  ladies  in  her 

*  No.  35.     She  put  up  a  portico,  -which  still  marks  the  house  in  the  now  somewhat  gloomy  and  unfashionable 
street.    That  house  I  have  engraved. 


SYDNEY,   LADY  MORGAN. 


card-stand,  and  liked,  when  she  paid  visits,  to  borrow  a  carriage  with  a  coronet,  to 
receive  as  many  as  might  be  of  stars  actual  at  her  "  evenings,"  to  exhibit  on  her 
chimney-piece  the  gifts  of  people  whom  heritage  rather  than  genius  had  made  great, 
and  was,  in  short,  a  woman  of  the  world,  she  had,  like  all  women  of  decided  cha- 
racter and  energetic  temperament,  her  kindly  sympathies  and  her  considerate 
generosities,  was  a  very  loveable  person  to  those  she  loved,  and  a  true  friend  to  those 
in  whom  she  took  interest. 

Her  collected  letters,  interspersed  with  meagre  bits  of  memoir,  were  published 
soon  after  her  death  by  her  literary  executor,  Hepworth  Dixon,  and  under  the  editor- 
ship of  Geraldine  Jewsbury.  We  cannot  doubt  that  judicious  discrimination  was 
exercised  in  the  selection.  According  to  that  authority  the  diaries  from  her  own 
hand  were  "  copious,"  and  she  kept  every  letter  she  had  received,  from  the  epistles 
of  field-marshals  to  the  billets  of  a  washerwomen.  In  a  word,  she  contemplated 
and  arranged  for  this  memoir,  and  prepared  it  accordingly,  with  as  much  system  and 
order  as  she  settled  her  toilet  and  her  drawing-room  for  a  "reception" — to  make 
the  best  of  herself  and  her  belongings  ;  commencing  with  the  day  of  her  birth 
(but  she  does  not  name  the  year),  when  all  the  wits  of  Dublin  were  assembled 
— of  whom  she  gives  a  biographical  list — and  ending  with  her  last  drive  in  a  friend's 
carriage. 

During  many  years  she  kept  a  journal.  Of  its  utter  barrenness  an  idea  may  be 
formed  from  those  portions  of  it  which  her  biographer  has  published,  and  from  the 
fact  that  from  one  whole  year's  record  he  has  printed  but  six  lines,  no  doubt  the 
only  portion  that  was  worth  preserving.  Her  autobiography  is,  indeed — as  were  her 
rooms — an  assemblage  of  a  mass  of  things,  no  one  of  which  was  of  much  value,  but 
which,  when  taken  together,  were  curious,  interesting,  and  instructive. 

"No  subtlety  of  inquiry  could  entrap  Lady  Morgan  into  any  admission  about 
her  age."  The  dates  of  all  old  letters  were  carefully  erased.  "  I  enter  my  protest 
against  dates,"  she  writes.  "  What  has  a  woman  to  do  with  dates  ? — cold,  false, 
erroneous,  chronological  dates  !  I  mean  to  have  none  of  them."*  It  is,  however, 
understood  that  Sydney  Owenson  was  born  in  1777;  and  it  is  said  by  one  of  her 
biographers,  Mr.  W.  J.  Fitzpatrick  (who  does  not  give  his  authority),  that  "her 
birth  occurred  on  shipboard."  She  is,  at  best,  but  half  Irish,  for  her  mother  was  an 
Englishwoman.  She  herself  tells  us  she  was  born  on  Christmas-day,  in  "  ancient 
ould  Dublin."  Her  father  was  Eobert  Owenson — according  to  his  daughter,  "as 
fine  a  type  of  an  Irish  gentleman  as  Ireland  ever  sent  forth."  He  was  an  actor,  and 
manager  of  theatres  in  Dublin.  During  one  of  his  professional  tours  in  England  he 
met  at  Shrewsbury  an  EngHsh  lady.  Miss  Hill  (with  whom  he  "ran  ofi'"),  the 
daughter  of  a  wealthy  gentleman.  She  was  never  forgiven.  She  was  not  young, 
but  a  very  serious  and  sensible  woman,  unlike  her  husband  in  everything.  Of  that 
marriage  the  issue  was  Sydney,  subsequently  married  to  Sir  Charles  Morgan,  and 
Olivia,  her  younger  sister  by  many  years,  who  became  the  wife  of  another  knight, 


*  I  once  said  to  her,  "  Lady  Morgan,  I  bought  one  of  your  hooka  to-day.  May  1  tell  you  its  date  V  "  Do," 
she  answered,  "  but  say  it  in  a  whisper."  "  1803 : "  She  lifted  her  hands  and  looked  unutterable  things,  but  did 
not  take  the  hint  unkindly. 


2l6 


MEMORIES. 


\ 


Sir  Arthur  Clarke.  It  is  not  improbable  that  his  little  precocious  daughter  acted 
occasionally  under  his  auspices  in  provincial  towns,  but  she  never  played  in  Dublin ; 
and  it  is  certain  that  her  father  early  resolved,  as  far  as  possible,  to  keep  his 
daughters  from  the  stage ;  yet  what  an  admirable  actress  Lady  Morgan  would  have 
been,  had  that  been  her  destiny  ! 

Early  in  life,  however,  she  sought  independence.  She  was  fond  of  saying  that 
she  had  provided  for  herself  from  the  time  she  was  fourteen  years  old ;  and  she  had 
so  wise  and  self-preserving  a  horror  of  debt,  that  she  either  paid  ready  money  for 
what  she  wanted,  or  did  without  it.  Much  of  her  after  prosperity  can  be  traced  to 
that  resolution — one  which  it  must  have  required  wonderful  firmness  to  have  held  to, 
considering  her  natural  love  of  display,  and  her  always  expensive  "surroundings." 
She  became  a  governess,  and  discharged  the  duties  of  that  office  in  two  families, 
until  her  writings  became  remunerative.    Her  father  kept  "his  girls"  at  an  "eminent 


boarding-school."  He  did  his  best  for  them  ;  and  they  largely  repaid  him  by  affec- 
tionate care  and  duty  till  he  died,  in  May,  1812,  having  enjoyed  the  luxury  of  calling 
each  of  his  daughters  "my  lady." 

Her  younger  days  were  passed  amid  perplexing,  harassing,  indeed  terrible,  trials, 
under  which  a  loftier  nature  might  have  fallen.  She  touches  on  them,  though  rarely, 
"  seeing  a  father  frequently  torn  to  prison,  a  mother  on  the  point  of  beggary  with 
her  children,"  and  so  forth. 

From  her  earliest  girlhood  up  to  the  very  eve  of  her  marriage  she  had  her 
perpetual  flirtations;  but  there  her  love  affairs  began  and  ended.  Some  of  her  sage 
friends  opined  that  she  "flirted  more  than  was  right,"  and  it  is  probable  she  occa- 
sionally stood  so  near  the  fire  as  slightly  to  singe  her  white  garments.  Still  she  was 
ever  "  safe  ;  "  like  her  countrywomen  generally — I  would  almost  say  universally — 
realising  the  portrait  of  the  poet  Moore,  of 

"the  wild  sweet-briery  fence 
That  round  the  flowers  of  Erin  dwells. 
Which  warns  the  touch,  while  winning  the  sense, 
Nor  charms  us  least  when  it  most  repels." 


SYDNEY,   LADY  MORGAN. 


217 


The  seemingly  light  and  frivolous,  and  really  fascinating  girl— fascinating  both  as 
girl  and  woman — escaped  the  only  slander  that  surely  slays.  Yet  she  had  at  no 
period  of  her  life  any  sustaining  and  preserving  power  from  that  which  supports  in 
difficulties  and  upholds  in  danger — Keligion  ;  and  she  was  continually  in  society 
where,  without  a  protector,  she  might  have  seemed  an  easy  victim.* 


LADY   MOKGAN'S  RESIDENCK,    KILDAEB    STEEET,    DUBLIN. 


Her  literary  career  began  early,  yet  not  so  early  as  she  liked  to  make  it  appear. 
Her  abilities  were  gifts  of  nature.  "All,"  she  writes,  "that  literary  counsel,  require- 
ment, and  instruction  give  to  literary  composition  was,  in  my  early  career  of  author- 
ship, utterly  denied  me." 

*  Writing'  of  herself  in  1811,  she  says,  "Inconsiderate  and  indiscreet;  never  saved  by  prudence,  but  often 
rescued  by  pride  ;  often  on  the  verge  of  error,  but  never  passing  the  line." 


2l8  MEMORIES. 


I 


In  1801  her  first  book  was  published  in  Dublin,  and  afterwards  in  London,  by 
Sir  Eichard  Phillips  ;  *  thenceforward  she  continued  working  for  more  than  half  a 
century,  having  written  and  published,  from  the  commencement  to  the  close  of  her 
career,  upwards  of  seventy  volumes. 

In  1812  she  married  Sir  Charles  Morgan,  M.D.  He  had  received  knighthood  at 
the  hands  of  the  Duke  of  Richmond,  Lord  Lieutenant,  by  request  of  the  Marquis 
and  Marchioness  of  Abercorn,  the  then  friends  of  Sydney  Owenson,  who  were  resolved 
that  their  "pet"  should  have  a  title.  Both  events  came  off  at  their  seat,  Baron's 
Court :  there  the  doctor  was  knighted ;  there  the  two  were  made  one.  Contrary  to 
prophecies  of  friends  and  to  general  expectation,  they  were  a  happy  couple.  Sir 
Charles  had  personal  advantages,  and  he  was  a  man  of  strong  mind,  yet  happily  a 
devoted  believer  in  his  wife,  while  she  had  large  respect  for  him  :  his  sound  common 
sense  and  her  erratic  nature  harmonised.  He  was  a  Doctor  of  Medicine,  the  friend 
and  correspondent  of  Jenner.  Though  younger  by  five  or  six  years  than  Miss 
Owenson,  he  was  not  young  when  he,  a  widower  and  an  Englishman,  born  in 
London  in  1783,  wooed  and  won  the  Wild  Irish  Grirl.  He  was  tall,  handsome,  of 
very  gentlemanly  address,  respectably  born  and  connected,  with  some  independent 
property,  and  madly  in  love  with  the  fascinating  "  Glorvina."  She  was  not  so 
desperately  smitten  with  him.  "  A  little  diablerie  would  make  me  wild  in  love  with 
him,"  she  writes.  He  was  too  quiet;  in  a  word,  too  English.  Nevertheless,  he 
became  a  thorough  Irishman — ."more  Irish  than  the  Irish,"  like  the  old  Anglo- 
Norman  settlers ;  took  the  Liberal  side  in  politics  ;  and  was  a  sturdy  fighter  for 
Catholic  emancipation.  He  was,  in  all  senses  of  the  word,  a  gentleman — "a  man  of 
^reat  erudition,  speculative  power,  and  singular  observation."!  In  August,  1844, 
he  died.  His  death  was  a  heavy  loss  to  Lady  Morgan  ;  for  she  loved  him,  confided 
in  him,  and  felt  for  him  entire  respect.  And  he  was  worthy  of  it ;  for  there  had 
been  neither  envy  of  her  fame  nor  jealousy  of  the  admiration  she  excited,  where  a 
lower  nature  might  have  felt  both. 

After  her  marriage,  when  the  sound,  "  Milady,"  always  so  pleasant  to  her,  had 
become  familiar  in  all  Dublin  coteries,  she  used  to  give  parties  weekly  in  Kildare 
Street,  and  assumed  to  be  the  leader  of  literary  fasbion.  There  was  no  one  to  dispute 
her  role,  and  her  "evenings"  drew  together  much  of  the  talent,  and  some  of  the 
rank,  of  the  Irish  capital.  Only  once  I  was  among  her  guests;  for  soon  after  I 
became  acquainted  with  her  I  left  that  city,  and  launched  my  bark  on  the  turgid  and 
troubled  river  of  life  in  London. .{ 

*  At  that  period,  and  long  afterwards,  the  law  of  copyright  operated  in  the  two  islands  much  as  it  now  does 
between  Great  Britain  and  the  United  States  of  America. 

+  Though,  as  she  says  in  one  of  her  letters,  "  educated  in  the  most  rigid  adherence  to  the  tenets  of  the  Church 
of  England,"  her  sympathies  were  with  the  then  oppressed  of  the  other  faith.  Oppressed,  in  tmth,  they  were  in  her 
early  days.    It  is  very  difl'erent  now. 

t  She  gave  me  a  letter  to  Mr.  Colburn,  and  my  first  contribution  to  periodical  literatui-e  was  published  in  the 
New  Monthly  Magazine— the  magazine  of  which,  eight  years  afterwards,  I  became  editor.  In  1830,  Mrs.  Hall,  having 
occasion  to  write  to  her,  made  reference  to  the  kindness  and  service  of  that  introduction,  and  received  this  reply  :— 

"Dear  Madam,  "  January  1,  1830. 

"I  have  been  exceedingly  gratified  by  the  receipt  and  perusal  of  the  letters,  and  two  very  ingenious  works 
which  you  and  Mr.  Hall  have  had  the  kindness  to  forward  to  me.  The  circumstance  you  allude  to,  of  my  hiving 
been  of  some  use  to  Mr.  Hall,  is  particularly  gracious,  the  more  so  as  I  have  not  the  slightest  recollection  of  the 
event.    My  zeal  is  so  often  mistaken  for  my  influence,  and  my  desire  to  be  useful  to  the  young  and  deserving  so 


SYDNEY,   LADY  MORGAN. 


219 


In  the  spring  of  1837  Lord  Melbourne  granted  to  Lady  Morgan  a  pension  of  ^2300 
a  year,  "  in  acknowledgment  of  the  services  rendered  by  her  to  the  world  of  letters." 
She  had  saved  a  sum  by  no  means  inconsiderable.  Sir  Charles  had  an  income  of 
his  own;  and  being  "independent,"  she  resolved  upon  leaving  L-eland  and  settling 
in  England— in  a  word,  to  become  "  an  absentee,"  a  class  she  had  unequivocally 
condemned  when  she  saw  little  chance  of  being  of  it ;  and  although  she  afterwards 
wrote  a  sort  of  apology  for  the   step — publishing,  indeed,   a  book  on  the  subject. 


T 

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LADY   MORGAN  S   EESIDENOE,   "WILLIAM    STKEET,    LONDON". 


arguing  "  that  English  misgovernment  and  misrule  made  L'eland  uninhabitable  ;  " 
that  it  was  "the  English  government,  and  not  the  natives  of  the  country,  who  were 
to  blame,"  and  so  forth,  she  failed  to  convince  her  country  or  herself  of  the  righteous- 
ness of  her  removal.  Probably  her  attractions  "  at  home  "  had  grown  less  ;  many  of 
her  old  friends  had  departed,  some  to  England,  others  to  the  better  land. 


notorious,  that  the  applications  I  receive  fi'om  the  aspirants  of  literary  fame  are  beyond  count  or  memory.  It  has 
rarely  happened  that  I  have  received  such  acknowledgments  as  youi'  unmerited  gratilude  has  la"vished  on  me,  or 
that,  "casting  my  bread  upon  the  inaters,  I  have  found  it  after  many  days." 


MEMORIES. 


1 


It  is  clear  that,  so  early  as  '32,  she  had  wearied  of  the  Irish  capital,  which  she 
described  as  "in  summer  a  desert  inhabited  only  by  loathsome  beggars."  In  1833 
she  writes,  "The  Irish  destiny  is  between  Bedlam  and  a  gaol."  "  Dear  dirty  Dublin," 
gradually  became  "  odious  Dublin,"  In  1835  she  talked  of  "  wretched  Dublin,  the 
capital  of  wretched  Ireland."     In  1837  she  wrote — 

"  Oh,  Ireland,  to  you 
I  have  long  bade  a  last  and  a  painful  adieu !  " 

And  so,  having  "  freighted  a  small  vessel"  with  their  household  gods.  Sir  Charles 
and  Lady  Morgan  became  permanent  residents  in  London,  taking,  after  a  brief 
"looking  about,"  what  she  terms  a  maisonnette,  'No.  11,  William  Street,  Knights- 
bridge,  entering  into  possession  on  the  17th  of  January,  1838,  and  there  continuing 
to  her  death — never  again  visiting  Ireland.  Naturally,  perhaps,  her  popularity  had 
there  dwindled  to  nothing.  She  is  by  no  means  the  only  "native"  who  was  a 
patriot  in  adversity  and  an  absentee  in  prosperity.  The  painter  Barry  said,  "Ire- 
land gave  me  breath,  but  Ireland  never  would  have  given  me  bread."  And  in  one 
of  her  letters  Lady  Morgan  writes,  "  There  is  as  little  affection  for  merit  as  there  is 
market."  * 

In  London  she  aimed  to  be  the  centre  of  a  circle — artistic,  literary,  scientific, 
aristocratic  ;  giving  large  parties  as  well  as  small ;  sometimes  crowding  into  two 
rooms  of  very  limited  size  a  hundred  guests — persons  of  all  ranks,  patricians  and 
plebeians.  Certainly  the  arrangement  of  her  rooms  was  most  effective  ;  the  lights 
and  shadows  were  in  the  right  places,  the  seats  were  comfortable — "  easy  chairs" — ■ 
the  eye  was  perpetually  arrested  by  something  that  was  either  peculiar  or  interesting. 
Somebody  said  it  was  like  a  "  baby-house  ;"  perhaps  it  was,  but  many  of  the  toys 
were  histories.  Her  society — often  so  conflicting,  composed  of  elements  that  never 
could  socially  mingle- — she  managed  with  admirable  tact,  sometimes  no  easy  task ; 
for  there  were  the  Russian  and  the  Pole  ;  the  "  black  Orangeman  "  and  the  "  bitter 
Papist;  "  the  proud  aristocrat  and  the  small  fry  of  letters  ;  in  a  word,  people  were 
compelled  to  rub  against  each  other  whose  positions,  opinions,  and  interests  were  not 
only  at  variance,  but  in  entire  and  utter  hostility.! 

She  would  have  liked  to  have  written  "  Corinne,"  and  been  expatriated  by 
Napoleon.  She  was  very  proud  of  being  ordered  to  leave  France,  but  it  was  not 
followed  up  as  she  hoped  it  would  have  been.  She  liked  to  be  thought  to  sit  and 
move  like  Madame  de  Stael,  and  to  rub  a  bit  of  stick  with  her  forefinger  as  Madame 
de  Stael  did  when  in  thought.    But  Lady  Morgan,  after  the  first  fancy  of  the  moment, 

*  We  once  encountered  an  ultra -Irishman,  who  told  us  he  was  going  to  Lady  Morgan's  "to  blow  her  up  for 
deserting  her  country  and  turning  her  back  on  the  Liberator."  He  went,  and  was  so  fascinated  by  the  ready  smUe 
and  few  words  of  tenderness  she  gave  to  the  memory  of  "  dear  old  Dublin"— her  inimitable  tact  of  turning  disad- 
vantages into  advantages,  and  foes  into  friends— that  he  assured  us  the  next  day,  "the  people  of  Ireland  mistook 
that  charming  Lady  Morgan  altogether ;  that  her  heart,  every  morsel  of  it,  was  in  Ireland ;  she  lived  in  England 
only  to  protect  her  countrymen  and  prevent  their  ieing  imposed  on." 

t  She  told  us  she  had  once  deplored  so  earnestly  her  ignorance  of  geology  to  one  of  its  professors,  that  he 
offered  to  read  a  lecture  on  the  subject  (which  her  ladyship  lamented  pathetically  she  had  not  heard)  in  her 
drawing-room !  She  laughed  afterwards  at  this,  as  one  of  the  great  difficulties  of  her  social  life.  She  added,  "  I 
got  out  of  it  by  regretting  that  my  present  audience  were  unworthy  such  an  honour,  but  that  if  he  would  do  so  the 
next  night  !  Well,  he  was  kind  enough  to  promise,  but  I  could  not  have  sui'vived  it,  and  the  next  day,  of  course, 
I  was  very  ill."  She  once  described  to  us  a  visit  paid  to  her  by  a  young  literary  Americ  m,  adding,  "  I  dare  say  he 
exchanged  his  Bible  for  a  peerage  the  moment  he  landed  at  Liverpool.  You  should  have  seen  his  ecstasy  when 
presented  to  a  duchess,  and  |iow  he  luxuriated  under  the  shadow  of  the  strawberry  leaves." 


SYDNEY,   LADY  MORGAN. 


could  not  be  an  imitator ;  her  impulses  grew  into  objects,  and  the  earnestness  born 
of  affectation  matured  into  reality. 

As  I  have  said,  she  continued  to  reside  in  William  Street  after  she  became  a 
■widow,  and  during  the  remainder  of  her  life.  At  length,  however,  the  foe  she  most 
di'eaded' — old  age — gradually  drew  nearer  and  nearer.  Towards  the  end  of  1852 
her  letters  and  diary  record  the  losses  of  old  friends.  One  after  another  departed, 
and  she  was  left  almost  alone  with  old  memories  :  they  were  warnings  to  set  her 
house  in  order ;  but  they  were  not  solemn  enough  to  impress  her  with  any  feeling 
akin  to  continuous  grief,  or  to  create  dread  of  the  "  enemy."  To  the  last  she  was 
toujouis  gate  ;  new  friends  came  to  replace  the  old  ;  some  one  "  worth  seeing  "  was 
sure  to  ,be  at  her  "  reception  ;  "  and  the  bait  of  an  invitation  was  too  tempting  to  be 
resisted,  notwithstanding  the  sure  pressure  of  a  mingled  crowd. 

The  death  of  her  brother-in-law.  Sir  Arthur  Clarke,  in  1857,  did  alarm  her;  and 
towards  the  close  of  1858  it  became  obvious  to  her  friends — suspicious  to  herself — 
that  her  work  on  earth  was  done.  Her  beloved  sister,  Olivia,  Lady  Clarke,  her 
oldest  friend  and  earliest  companion,  with  whom  she  had  struggled  through  a  pre- 
carious youth,  had  died  some  years  before  (1845).  On  her  birthday,  1858,  Lady 
Morgan  had  a  dinner-party,  told  stories,  and  sung  a  comic  song.  On  the  17th  of 
March,  1859,  she  had  a  musical  party,  at  which  we  were  present;*  a  gay  and 
crowded  party  it  was — full  of  what  she  ever  liked  to  see,  celebrities  or  notorieties ; 
and  on  the  16th  of  April,  1859,  she  died.  She  was  interred  in  the  Brompton  Ceme- 
tery, where  a  tomb,  executed  by  Mr.  Sherrard  Westmacott,  has  been  erected  to  her 
memory  by  her  niece,  Mrs.  Inwood  Jones  f — a  charming  and  accomplished  lady, 
whom  it  is  oar  privilege  now  to  know  intimately. 

The  life  of  Lady  Morgan  was  one  of  excitement  from  its  dawn  to  its  close.  Even 
when  a  governess,  "  instructor  of  youth,"  |  her  days  were  never  sad,  nor  did  time 
hang  heavily  on  her  hands.  She  was  a  charming  companion  at  all  periods,  and  was 
generally  regarded  in  that  light  rather  than  as  a  teacher.  Her  animal  spirits  were 
inexhaustible  ;  if  not  handsome,  she  was  pretty,  and  in  person  attractive  ;  she  told 
Irish  stories  with  inimitable  humour,  and  sung  Irish  songs  with  singular  esprit ;  she 
had  been  familiar  with  "  society  "  from  her  childhood,  and  had  been  reared  in  self- 
dependence  ;  her  vanity,  he^  value  of  herself,  made  her  at  ease   amid  the  great   as 

*  She  usually  gave  a  party  on  St.  Patrick's  Day.  In  1858  Mrs.  Hall  received  from  her  this  characteristic 
note : — 

"  19(/i  March,  1858.     11,  William  Street,  Bclgro.via. 
"Mt  dear  Mrs.  Hall, 

"  If  I  was  not  as  blind  as  a  bat,  and  as  weak  as  a  rat,  I  would  answer  your  pleasant  and  kind  letter 
(pleasant  because  it  was  so  kind)  en  long  et  en  large :  as  it  is,  I  can  only  say  a  thousand  thanks.  I  was,  in  all  ti'uth 
sending  you  a  little  invite  for  Patrick's  Day,  when  your  note  arrived  with  an  account  of  your  illness. 

"  I  have  been  three  months  confined  to  my  house,  and  even  to  particular  rooms,  by  order  of  Dr.  Ferguson ;  so 
I  have  escaped  so  far  bronchitis,  but  I  feel  the  want  of  air  and  exercise.  I  hope  very  soon  to  see  you  in  William 
Street,  and  have  a  few  agreeables  to  meet  you.  I  had  my  band  on  Patrick's  Night,  and  sung  my  Saxon  guests  an 
Irish  song,  which  made  my  little  Irish  harp  reverberate  with  surprise  !  I  faithfully  pay  my  annual  subscription  to 
the  Governesses'  Institution.    I  hope  it  is  the  one  you  recommended  to  me. 

"  Ever  with  kind  regards, 

"  S.  Morgan." 

+  The  tomb  wiU  be  found  on  the  right  of  the  principal  walk,  entering  the  gate  in  the  Fulham  Hoad.  ^  A  large 
plain  slab  is  supported  by  six  pillars ;  on  a  slab  underneath  is  carved  an  Irish  harp,  propped  by  two  books,  "France " 
and  the  "  Wild  Irish  Girl."    At  the  base  is  a  wreath  of  immortelles. 

i  She  did  not  forget  this ;  bequeathing,  in  her  will,  a  sum  of  £200  to  the  Aged  Governesses'  Benevolent 
Institution. 


MEMORIES. 


among  the  small ;  like  the  soldier  of  fortune,  she  had  all  to  gain  and  nothing  to  lose  ; 
reckless  as  regarded  foes,  but  fervent  in  defence  of  friends.  Living  on  praise  as  the 
very  breath  of  her  life,  flattery,  no  matter  how  gross,  seemed  never  to  exceed  her 
right.  No  doubt  much  of  "  womanliness  ''  was  sacrificed  to  that  perpetual  exercise 
of  self-dependence.  Self-dependence  is  not  the  natural  destiny  of  woman — rarely 
bringing  content,  and  still  more  rarely  happiness. 

A  writer  who  knew  her  in  her  prime,  thus  pictures  "  Glorvina  "at  "  the  Castle  :  " 
— "  Hardly  more  than  four  feet  high,  with  a  slightly-curved  spine,  uneven  shoulders 


THE  MONUMBNT  TO  LADY  MOKOAN. 


and  eyes,  she  glided  about  in  a  close-cropped  wig,  bound  by  a  fillet  or  solid  band  of 
gold,  her  face  all  animation,  and  with  a  witty  word  for  everj^body."  "  Notwith- 
standing her  natural  defects,  she  made  a  picturesque  appearance."  Another  writer, 
alluding  to  the  "  unevenness  "  of  her  eyes,  says,  "they  were,  however,  large,  lus- 
trous, and  electrical."  Prince  Puckler  Muskau  (who  published  a  tour  in  Ireland  in 
1828)  describes  her  as  "  a  little,  frivolous,  lively  woman,  neither  pretty  nor  ugly, 
and  with  really  fine  and  expressive  eyes." 

This  is  Mrs.  Hall's  portrait  of  Lady  Morgan  at  a  late  year  of  her  life  : — 

"  Lady  Morgan's  person  was  so  well  known  to  the  hahitues  of  London — at  all 


SYDNEY,   LADY  MORGAN.  223 

events,  to  the  classes  that  belong  to  the  fashionable  and  literary — that  any  descrip- 
tion {or  them  may  be,  as  she  would  say,  de  trop ;  but  thousands  have  been,  at  one 
time  or  other  of  their  lives,  interested  in  her  works,  and  the  sort  of  flying  reputation 
she  had  for  saying  and  doing  odd,  but  clever,  things,  and  the  marvellous  tact  which 
comprised  so  much  of  her  talent,  or  the  talent  whose  greatest  society-power  was  tact. 
To  those  we  say  that  Lady  Morgan  was  small  and  slightly  deformed  ;  that  her  head 
was  large,  round,  and  well  formed  ;  her  features  full  of  expression,  particularly  the 
expression  that  accompanies  '  humour,'  dimpling,  as  it  does,  round  the  mouth,  and 
sparkling  in  the  eyes.  The  natural  intonations  of  her  voice  in  conversation  were 
singularly  pleasing — so  pleasing  as  to  render  her  '  nothings'  pleasant ;  and  whatever 
aflectation  hovered  about  her  large  green  fan,  or  was  seen  in  the  '  way  she  had '  of 
folding  her  draperies  round  her,  and  looking  out  of  them  with  true  Irish  espieijlerie, 
the  tones  of  that  voice  were  to  the  last  full  of  feeling." 

Portraits  of  her  were,  of  course,  often  painted ;  more  frequently  in  France  than 
in  England.  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence  pictured  her,  but  expressed  a  wish  that,  if 
engraved,  his  name  should  not  go  with  it  !  David  d'Angers  sculptured  her  bust. 
The  portrait  that  stands  at  the  head  of  this  Memory  is  from  a  photograph  taken 
not  very  long  before  her  death,  but  subsequently  "  worked  upon."*  It  is  engraved 
from  the  copy  she  gave  us.  In  1824  the  poet,  Samuel  Lover,  then  a  miniature- 
painter  in  Dublin,  painted  a  portrait  of  her.  It  was  to  have  been  engraved  by 
Meyer  ;  "  but,"  says  Lady  Morgan's  biographer,  "  between  the  painter  and  the 
engraver,  the  result  was  such  unmitigated  ugliness  that  Colburn  would  not  let  it 
appear." 

Few  writers  have  aroused  more  hostility,  or  have  been  more  thoroughly  abused. 
Her  grand  enemy  was  her  countryman,  John  Wilson  Croker.  It  was  he  who 
assailed  her  in  the  Quarterly  Preview,  accusing  her,  either  indirectly  or  directly,  of 
"  licentiousness,  profligacy,  irreverence,  blasphemy,  libertinism,  disloyalty,  and 
atheism."  She  had  her  revenge — her  character  of  Crawley  junior,  in  "  Florence 
Macarthy,"  must  have  been  a  bayonet-stab  in  the  very  vitals  of  her  foe.t  He 
certainly  overshot  the  mark  ;  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  his  severity  augmented 
the  popularity  of  Lady  Morgan,  and  increased  the  number  of  her  friends.  She  was 
found  to  be  "  an  awkward  customer  "  whenever  she  was  assailed.  She  girded  on 
her  armour  even  to  the  last,  and  went  into  battle  with  no  less  an  adversary  than 
Cardinal  Wiseman,  who  attacked  her  for  having  asserted,  in  her  book  on  Italy,  that 
the  sacred  chair  of  St.  Peter,  when  examined,  was  found  to  contain  this  passage 
in  Arabic  characters  : — •"  There  is  but  one  God,  and  Mahomet  is  his  prophet ! "  She 
answered  the  Cardinal  in  a  pamphlet — it  was  the  old  war-horse  roused  to  energy  by 


*  The  portrait  I  give  of  her  is  engraved  from  a  photograph  taken  shortly  before  her  death,  one  of  those  she 
gave  to  many  of  her  friends— ourselves  among  the  rest.  The  sun  picture  was  not  a  very  good  one — being,  indeed, 
only  amateur's  work ;  it  was  tinted  by  his  or  her  hand.  The  artist  caught  something  of  the  well-known  expression, 
some  traits  of  the  dear  old  face.  Like  most  intellectual  faces,  however,  Lady  Morgan's  was  not  to  be  photographed 
— not  even  painted  ;  there  was  an  electricity  about  it  which  paint-brush  could  not  hope  to  catch,  nor  camera  to  fix. 

t  Croker,  by  his  earliest  work,  "  Familiar  Epistles,"  is  said  to  have  done  to  death  the  actor  Edwin  ;  at  least,  it 
was  recorded  on  Edwin's  tombstone,  in  St.  Werbm-gh's  Churchyard,  that  "  his  death  was  occasioned  by  an  illiberal 
and  cruel  attack  on  his  professional  reputation  from  an  anonymous  assassin."  Croker,  among  other  "names," 
calLed.  Lady  Morgan  "  a  female  Methuselah,"  knowing  that  was  a  barbed  arrow  that  was  sure  to  stick. 


2-H  MEMORIES. 


I 


the  trumpet-call  to  battle.    Latterly  her  sight  began  to  give  way,  and  she  was  almost 
blind  when  she  ran  a  tilt  against  "his  Eminence." 

Let  us  fancy  her  gay  ladyship  travelling  through  France  with  her  little  "Irish 
harp  case,"  that  was  mistaken  for  a  "petit  mort  she  had  brought  over  to  bury  in  Pere- 
la-Chaise ;  buying  herself"  a  clicqjeau  de  soleil  with  cornflowers  stuck  in  the  side  of 
it — twenty  francs  ;"  receiving  from  Lafayette  and  his  household  assurances  of  "  the 
attachment  of  three  generations;"  her  "  Wednesdays  "  in  the  gay  city,  where  the 
highest  and  the  lowest  met — princes,  dukes,  marshals,  counts,  actors,  Maltese 
knights,  small  poets,  and  small  wits — in  a  word,  any  celebrity  or  any  notoriety,  male  or 
female,  was  welcome  to  her  salon.  There  the  first  violin  player  of  France  placed  her 
on  a  raised  seat,  and  declared  she  was  his  "  inspiration."  There  Humboldt  called 
and  left  his  card,  with  the  pencilled  words,  "  Toujours  malheureux."  Generally, 
however,  she  "  kept  clear  of  the  English  ;  "  content  with  any  praise,  and  greedy  only 
of  the  admiration  that  was  to  be  had  without  the  asking  ;  yet  ever  so  pleasant,  so 
full  of  point,  so  perfect  in  the  style  2^a^'lant,  as  she  terms  it,  as  really  to  be  what  she 
aimed  to  be — the  queen  of  society.* 

If  her  triumph  was  less  in  London  than  in  the  Elysees,  it  was  because  her  wor- 
shippers were  more  phlegmatic  than  their  light-tongued  and  light-hearted  neighbours. 
Yet  her  "  evenings  at  home  "  were  always  "  successes." 

Lady  Morgan  had  an  idea  that  she  might  be  the  means  of  bringing  together  in 
fraternal  intercourse  the  aristocracy  of  rank  and  the  aristocracy  of  talent  on  a  more 
extensive  scale  than  was  possible  in  her  maisonnette.  Mr.  Mackinnon,  of  Hyde  Park 
Place,  had  a  large  house,  a  suite  of  rooms  capable  of  "  entertaining  "  many,  and  in 
partnership  with  that  estimable  gentleman  her  plan  was  to  be  carried  out.  He  was 
to  issue  cards  to  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  his  order ;  she,  to  those  who  were  eminent 
in  literature,  science,  and  art.  The  cards  were  printed  accordingly.  They  expressed 
that  Lady  Morgan  and  Mr.  Mackinnon  desired  to  be  honoured  with  the  company  of 
So-and-so  on  the  evening  of  Wednesday,  July  16th.  It  was  certainly  somewhat 
startling  to  read  the  names  thus  joined  ;  it  was  known  that  the  one  was  a  widow, 
the  other  a  widower,  and  there  was  consequently  no  just  cause  or  impediment  why 
they  two  should  not  be  joined  together.  Still  it  was  curious,  and  "  gossip  "  might 
have  been  excused,  especially  as  the  card  was  lithographed  in  the  joint  names,  that 
of  Lady  Morgan  standing  first.  We  received  our  invitation  from  her  ladyship's  own 
hands,  and  accepted  it.  On  the  evening  of  the  16th  we  duly  entered  the  drawing- 
room  at  Hyde  Park  Place.  We  heard  titles  of  all  degrees  announced  ;  but  hardly  a 
name  eminent  in  literature,  art,  or  science  greeted  our  ears.  There  were  present, 
perhaps,  two  hundred  people  of  rank,  but,  excepting  ourselves  and  three  or  four 
others  of  our  "  calling,"  Lady  Morgan  had  no  followers  to  fraternise  with  those  of 

*  Among  her  other  peculiarities,  her  gay  ladyship  describes  herself  as  a  Freemason :  a  venerable  marquise— 
"  the  dear  bdle  et  lonne  of  Voltaire  "—being  grande  mattresse.  of  a  lodge— proposed  it  to  her,  and  she  became  "  a  fi-ee 
and  accepted  mason."  The  belle  et  honne  at  the  inauguration  wore  a  picture  of  Voltaire,  set  in  brilliants.  There 
were  men-masons  present,  among  them  the  Bishop  of  Jerusalem,  and  the  actor  Talma.  "  As  to  the  secret,"  she 
writes,  "  it  shall  never  pass  these  lips,  in  holy  silence  sealed ; "  and  certainly  her  ladyship  may  well  wonder  how  it 
was  that  a  secret  confided  to  many  women,  young,  and  beautiful,  and  worldly,  should  never  haw  been  revealed. 
She  does  not  tell  us  if  she  wore  an  apron,  but  the  bdle  et  bonne  marquise  did  ;  and  so  the  illustree  Anglaise  was  added 
to  the  list  of  free  and  accepted  masons—"  received  with  acclamation  and  three  rounds  of  applause,  and  cries  of 
'  Honneur !  honneur ! '  " 


SYDNEY,   LADY  MORGAN.  225 

Mr.  Mackinnon.  Speculation  was  vain  as  to  the  cause  of  so  appalling  an  effect. 
The  lady  was  evidently  irate ;  there  was  no  way  of  accounting  for  the  humiliating 
fact,  and,  as  may  be  supposed,  the  evening  passed  off  with  amazing  dulness,  for  the 
co-operation  of  no  other  lions  had  been  sought.  A  few  days  afterwards  the  mystery 
was  explained.  Mr.  Mackinnon  had  agreed  to  envelope  and  direct  such  cards  as 
were  to  go  to  his  "  order,"  Lady  Morgan  undertaking  the  transmission  of  such  as 
were  intended  to  lure  the  magnates  of  her  own  circle  and  craft.  The  cards,  properly 
prepared  and  addressed,  she  handed  to  Mr.  Mackinnon's  butler  for  the  post ;  but  either 
that  important  functionary  forgot  his  duty,  or  grudged  the  postage,  or  thought  it 
beneath  him  and  his  master  to  invite  so  many  untitled  guests — at  all  events,  they 
were  subsequently  found  safe  in  his  desk,  where  they  had  been  in  comfortable  seclu- 
sion from  the  day  when  dear  Lady  Morgan  placed  them  in  his  hands.  It  is  needless 
to  say,  there  began  and  ended  the  scheme  of  her  ladyship  to  bring  together  the  aris- 
tocracy of  rank  and  the  aristocracy  of  talent. 

She  had  that  cordiality  of  manner  which  "  took  "  at  once,  and  did  not  permit  you 
time  to  inquire  if  it  were  sincere.  She  was,  however,  entirely  free  from  literary 
jealousy  ;  *  she  would  aid,  and  not  depress,  young  authorship  ;  she  was  often  generous 
with  her  purse,  as  well  as  her  pen  and  tongue  ;  there  was  nothing  mean  about  her  ; 
and  flattered  as  she  had  been  from  her  youth  upwards,  is  it  wonderful  that  her  large 
organ  of  self-esteem  occasionally  assumed  a  character  of  arrogance  ?  that  when  she 
called  herself  "Glorvina,"  it  was  her  weakness  to  persuade  herself  how  closely  she 
resembled  that  brilliant  creation  of  her  fancy ;  that  she  was,  in  a  word,  vain,  although 
her  vanity  may  have  been  but  the  skeleton  of  pride  ? 

She  was  essentially  materielle.  In  no  one  of  her  letters,  in  no  part  of  her  journal, 
can  there  be  found  the  remotest  reference  to  that  High  Power  from  which  her  genius 
was  derived,  which  protected  her  wayward  and  perilous  youth,  her  prosperous  woman- 
hood, and  her  popular,  if  not  honoured,  old  age.  There  is  no  word  of  prayer  or  of 
thanksgiving  in  any  of  her  written  thoughts. 

Her  tact  was  portable,  applicable,  alive,  alert,  marketable,  good-natured,  ever 
ready  at  call,  and  consequently  often  useful ;  yes,  and  useful  to  others  as  well  as  to 
herself,  for  she  was  continually  "  on  the  watch  "  to  serve  a  friend  and  set  aside  a 
difficulty.  Lady  Morgan  had  no  left  hand,  no  deaf  ear,  "  no  blind  side ;"  she  was 
life,  bright  life,  from  top  to  toe.  Even  when  her  receptions  were  over,  and,  at  her 
great  age,  it  might  have  been  supposed  she  had  gone  wearied  and  languidly  to  bed, 
she  chattered  cheerfully  to  her  maid,  and  closed  her  eyes  with  a  jest. 

She  was  created  for  society — enjoyed  and  lived  in  society  to  the  last :  nothing 
annoyed  her  so  much  as  being  invited  to  a  small  party.  She  liked  the  crowded 
room,  the  loud  announcement,  and  the  celebrity  she  had  earned.  Her  vanity  was 
charming  ;  it  was  different  from  every  other  vanity  ;  it  was  so  naive,  so  original,  and 

*  When  both  Sir  Charles  and  Lady  Morgan  -wrote  for  a  -well-kno-wn  periodical,  they  were  ever  ready  to  foster 
young  talent ;  and  I  call  to  mind  with  gratitude  her  generous  criticism  on  the  works  of  an  author,  whom  a  less 
generous  nature  would  have  thought  a  poacher  on  what  she  might  have  considered  her  own  Irish  preserve.  Lady 
Morgan  had  her  quick  and  natural  appreciation  of  an  absurdity  or  a  weakness,  and  could  not  help  having  "  a  fliag  " 
at  it ;  it  was  your  neighbour's  tui-n  to-day,  and  might  be  yours  to-morrow ;  but  what  matter  1  she  would  do  you  a 
kindness,  and  be  really  glad  to  do  it,  all  the  same.  She  never  put  the  young  aspirant  for  celebrity  aside,  to  pay 
more  attention  to  a  titled  visitor. 


2  26  MEMORIES. 


I 


she  admitted  it  with  the  frankness  of  a  child.  "  I  know  I  am  vain,"  she  once  said 
to  Mrs.  Hall,  "  but  I  have  a  right  to  be  so.  It  is  not  put  off  and  on,  like  my  rouge ; 
it  is  always  with  me,  it  sleeps  with  me,  wakes  with  me,  companions  me  in  my  soli- 
tude, and  arrays  itself  for  publicity  whenever  I  go  abroad.  I  wrote  books  when  your 
mothers  worked  samplers,  and  demanded  freedom  for  Ireland  when  Dan  O'Connell 
scrambled  for  gulls'  eggs  among  the  wild  crags  of  Derrynane."  "  I  am  vain,"  she 
said,  on  another  occasion,  to  Mrs.  Hall,  "  but  I  have  a  right  to  be  so.  Look  at  the 
number  of  books  I  have  written  !  Did  ever  woman  move  in  a  brighter  sphere  than 
I  do  ?  My  dear,  I  have  three  invitations  to  dinner  to-day ;  one  from  a  duchess, 
another  from  a  countess,  a  third  from  a  diplomatist — I  will  not  tell  you  who — a  very 
naughty  man,  who,  of  course,  keeps  the  best  society  in  London.  Now  what  right 
have  I,  my  father's  daughter,  to  this  ?  What  am  I  ?  A  pensioned  scribbler  !  Yet 
I  am  given  gifts  that  queens  might  covet.  Look  at  that  little  clock  ;  tJiat  stood  in 
Marie  Antoinette's  dressing-room.  When  the  Louvre  was  pillaged,  Denon  met  a 
bonnet  rouge  with  it  in  his  hand,  and  took  it  from  him.  Denon  gave  it  to  me." 
Then,  with  a  rapid  change,  she  added,  "  Ah,  that  is  a  long  time  ago  !  Princes  and 
princesses,  celebrities  of  all  kinds,  have  presented  me  with  the  souvenirs  you  see 
around  me,  and  they  would  make  a  wiser  woman  vain." 

If  you  complimented  her  on  her  looking  "  so  much  better,"  she  would  reply, 
"  Perhaps  I  am  better  rouged  than  usual."  Once  a  lady,  not  famous  for  sincerity, 
said,  "  Dear  Lady  Morgan,  how  lovely  your  hair  is  !  How  do  you  preserve  its 
colour  ?"  "  By  dyeing  it,  my  dear  ;  I  see  you  want  the  receipt."  When  we  were 
so  fortunate  as  to  find  her  alone,  we  were  charmed  by  her  mingling  of  acute  observa- 
tion with  much  that  was  genial  and  generous  ;  but  our  enjoyment  would  be,  at  times, 
suddenly  disturbed  by  a  sarcasm — -just  as  when  in  a  delicious  sandwich  you  are  stung 
by  an  unwieldy  drop  of  mustard. 

Devoted  as  Lady  Morgan  appeared  to  be — to  strangers — to  the  frivolities  of  the 
world,  she  had  sound  and  rational  views  of  life  and  its  duties  as  a  daughter  and  a 
wife.  Speaking  with  Mrs.  Hall  of  some  young  ladies  suddenly  bereft  of  fortune,  she 
said,  with  an  emphatic  movement  of  her  dear  old  green  fan — "  They  do  everything 
that  is  fashionable — imperfectly :  their  singing,  and  drawing,  and  dancing,  and  lan- 
guages amount  to  nothing.  They  were  educated  to  marry,  and,  had  there  been  time, 
they  might  have  gone  off  ivith,  and  hereafter  from,  husbands.  They  cannot  earn 
their  salt ;  they  do  not  even  know  how  to  dress  themselves.  I  desire  to  give  every 
girl,  no  matter  her  rank,  a  trade — a  profession,  if  the  word  pleases  better.  Cultivate 
one  thing  to  perfection,  no  matter  what  it  is,  for  which  she  has  a  talent — drawing, 
music,  embroidery,  housekeeping  even;  give  her  a  staff  to  lay  hold  off;  let  her  feel, 
'  That  will  carry  me  through  life  without  dependence  ! '  I  was  independent  at  four- 
teen, and  never  went  in  debt." 

Perhaps  no  writer  ever  owed  less  to  experience  than  Lady  Morgan.  The  faults 
of  her  youth  were  the  faults  of  her  age.  She  was  never  young.  Her  mind  attained 
its  majority  at  a  very  early  period.  She  carried  the  same  views,  the  same  ideas, 
the  same  prejudices,  the  same  craving  for  liberty,  the  same  sympathies,  into  her 
more  aspiring  works  on  France  and  Italy,  as  she  did  into  her  novels  ;  the  same  contra- 


JOHN  BANIM.  227 


dictory  love  for  republicanism  and  aristocracy,  the  same  vanity — a  vanity  tlie  most 
abounding,  yet  so  unlike  in  its  perfect  and  undisguised  honesty,  its  self-avowing 
frankness,  to  all  other  vanities,  that  it  became  absolutely  a  charm — perhaps  one  of 
her  greatest  charms. 

The  last  time  Mrs.  Hall  saw  "  the  Wild  Irish  Girl,"  she  was  seated  on  a  couch  in 
her  bed-room — a  picturesque  ruin  of  old-lady  womanhood.  Her  black  silk  dressing- 
gown  fell  round  her  -petite  form,  which  seemed  so  fragile  that  she  feared  to  see  the 
old  lady  move.  "  Why,  Lady  Morgan  !  "  she  said,  "  you  are  looking  far  better  than 
1  expected  ;  you  are  really  looking  well."  "  Ah,  no,  my  dear,"  she  said  in  reply, 
"  I  am  not ;  you  should  see  me  in  the  morning — it's  the  rouge  !  it's  the  rouge  !  " 

I  may,  with  propriety,  follow  a  Memory  of  Lady  Morgan  by  Recollections  of 
some  other  of  the  Irish  authors  with  whom  I  have  been  acquainted.  They  must  be 
brief  "  notices,"  nothing  more ;  but  it  jv^ould  be  easy  for  me  to  enlarge  them. 

They  "  loom  "  around  me  as  I  write.     Foremost  among  them  is 


JOHK  BANIM. 

John  Banim  was  one  of  the  authors  of  the  "  O'Hara  Tales  "  (the  other,  his  elder 
brother,  Michael,  died  not  long  ago  in  their  native  town,  Kilkenny),  and  he  was  the 
sole  author  of  many  novels  and  some  poems  of  much  beauty  and  power.  I  knew  him 
first  so  far  back  as  1822,  when  he  occupied,  with  me,  a  cottage  at  South  Bank,  St. 
John's  Wood,  our  landlord  being  our  next-door  neighbour — Ugo  Foscolo — of  whom, 
in  due  time,  I  shall  have  to  speak. 

Banim  was  essentially  one  of  the  people.  His  wife,  a  very  lovely  young  woman 
then,  was  peasant  born.  At  that  time  he  was  labouring  to  earn  bread  by  his  pen  in 
London  :  precarious  and  scanty,  until  he  "hit  upon  "  a  new  idea,  and  drew  attention 
to  Ireland,  that  had  long  been  regarded  as  a  barren  field,  for  Maria  Edgeworth  and 
Lady  Morgan  were  then  its  only  cultivators,  and  they  were  gradually  retiring  from 
it.  Banim  may  be  considered  as  the  founder  of  that  class  of  fiction  which  became 
at  once,  and  immensely,  popular.  The  public  was  not  unjust  to  John  Banim, 
although  ultimately  his  circumstances  were  very  inauspicious ;  and,  but  for  the 
Government  pension  he  enjoyed,  his  days  might  have  ended  in  unmitigated  poverty. 

He  was  a  Roman  Catholic,  with  opinions  that,  in  later  days,  have  assumed  a  hos- 
tile, bitter,  though  senseless,  attitude  to  England ;  and  it  is  not  unfair  to  say  that  his 
several  books  were  tainted  by  his  peculiar  views. 

Banim  was  known  to  the  world  as  the  "  coadjutor"  of  Shiel  in  the  production  of 
a  tragedy — Damon  and  Pythias — performed  at  Covent  Garden  in  1821,  when  the 
author  was  twenty-four  years  old.  It  is  understood,  however,  that  Shiel's  part  of  the 
production  extended  to  little  more  than  advice,  "  clippings,"  and  a  recommendation 
to  the  manager.  Its  success  was  mainly  owing  to  the  brilliant  and  powerful  acting 
of  Macready.  At  that  time  Banim  was  studying  art  rather  than  letters,  and  taught 
drawing  in  Dublin.     On  the   strength  of  this  gleam  of  sunshine  he   married,  and 

Q   2 


228  MEMORIES. 


ventured  to  buffet  the  stream  in  London,  residing  first  at  a  cottage  in  Amelia  Place, 
Brompton — tlie  cottage  in  whicli  Curran  had  sometime  lived,  and  where  he  died. 

I  saw  him  there,  knew  him  intimately  afterwards,  and  had  renewed  intercourse 
with  him  at  a  subsequent  period,  when  he  resided  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Black- 
heath,  previous  to  his  prolonged  residence  in  France  under  circumstances  of 
embarrassment  approaching  penury.  It  was  sought  to  raise  a  fund  for  his  support, 
towards  which  Ireland,  who  owed  him  so  much,  was  a  niggardly  contributor, 
although  a  public  meeting  was  held  in  Dublin,  at  which  Shiel  presided;  and  similar 
meetings  took  place  in  other  parts  of  the  country. 

During  many  after-years  —  in  England,  France,  and  Ireland — his  health  was 
deplorably  bad  :  the  lower  extremities  were  paralysed,  and  he  was  incapable  of 
action,  except  with  his  head  and  hands.  These,  however,  were  active ;  dismal 
necessity  made  them  so  ;  but  his  popularity  had  waned,  and  to  earn  the  means 
of  life  was  a  hard,  almost  an  impossible,  tasji.  I  arranged  for  him  the  sale  of  his 
latest  novel  (he  was  then  residing  at  Boulogne)  for  a  sum  by  no  means  adequate  to 
his  hopes ;  and  in  1835  he  returned  to  Ireland,  like  the  wounded  stag,  to  die  where 
he  was  raised — in  his  native  city  of  Kilkenny.  "  I  found  him,"  writes  his  ever  good, 
upright,  and  loving  brother,  "  laid  listlessly  on  a  sofa,  his  useless  limbs  at  full  length  ; 
his  open  hand  was  on  the  arm  of  the  oouch,  and  his  sunken  cheek  rested  on  his 
pillow.  I  looked  down  on  a  meagre,  attenuated,  almost  white-headed  old  man." 
Friends  rallied  round  him,  however,  giving  sympathy  for  his  sorrow ;  and  aid  more 
substantial  .frequently  came  to  his  bed  of  physical  suffering.  One  of  the  Queen's 
pensions — d6150  a  year — was  accorded  to  him,  mainly,  I  believe,  by  the  instrumen- 
tality of  the  good  Earl  of  Carlisle.  It  brought  sunshine  to  the  gloom  at  Windgap 
Cottage,  and  made  comparatively  happy  the  remaining  years  of  his  life  ;  for  he  lived, 
"bedridden,"  until  July,  1842,  when  his  days  of  anguish  were  closed. 

A  small  pension  was  subsequently  granted  to  his  widow,  who  survived  their  only 
child,  a  daughter ;  and  very  recently  a  pension  has  been  accorded  by  Mr.  D'Israeli 
to  the  daughter  of  the  brother,  Michael  Banim. 

Banim,  in  his  prime,  was  a  good  specimen  of  the  Irish  Celt.  His  face  was  full, 
somewhat  too  much  so,  heavy  in  the  lower  part,  with  a  broad  forehead  and  grey 
eyes,  such  as  can  beam  with  gentle  love,  or  be  rapidly  lit  into  fierce  fire.  He  was 
somewbat  pitted  with  the  small-pox,  but  his  face  was  handsome,  and  certainly 
expressive.  He  was  sadly  changed  when  I  saw  him  last  ;  physical  suffering  had, 
perhaps,  impaired  his  mind  ;  and  although  not  quite  the  wreck  his  loving  and  devoted 
brother  describes,  it  was  impossible  to  look  upon  him  without  a  sense  of  pain.  He 
was  born  in  1798,  and  died  in  1842. 


GERALD   GRIFFIN.  229 


GEEALD   GEIFFIIT. 

Gerald  Griffin  was  born  in  1803,  in  Limerick  :  lie  was  the  ninth  son  of  his  father, 
a  brewer  in  the  "  city  of  violated  treaties."  At  the  age  of  nineteen  he  was  in  London, 
picking  up  a  precarious  living  by  literature  ;  struggling  with  absolute  poverty,  with- 
out friends,  without  experience,  almost  without  hope.  He  had  dreams  of  fame, 
indeed  ;  for  in  his  pocket  he  carried  some  poems  and  an  unfinished  tragedy,  and  had 
grand  notions  of  great  things  to  come.  He  found  the  publishers  cold,  of  course ; 
crawled  where  he  expected  to  fly ;  and  lay  broken  in  spirit  and  almost  in  heart  at  the 
foot  of  the  mountain,  the  summit  of  which  he  had  fancied  it  easy  to  reach  by  the  aids 
of  energy  and  industry  associated  with  genius. 

He  found  a  useful  adviser  and  friend  in  John  Banim — himself  a  struggler  in  the 
mighty  vortex  of  London  ;  and  at  Banim's  I  met  him  more  than  once.  He  was  then 
a  delicate,  or  rather  refined-looking  young  man,  tall  and  handsome,  but  with  mournful 
eyes,  and  that  unmistakeable  something  which  prognosticates  a  sad  life  and  an  early 
death.  He  had  long  dark  hair,  and  a  forehead  that  indicated  intellectual  power  ; 
but  there  was  deep  sadness  in  his  looks,  even  in  his  attitudes,  as  if  Hope  had  been 
omitted  in  the  organisation  of  his  brain.  Though  little  more  than  a  boy,  he  seemed 
already  exhausted  ;  way-worn,  though  so  fresh  on  life's  journey.  I  saw  him  many 
years  afterwards  under  more  favourable  auspices  in  Limerick,  and  once  again  in  Cork 
in  1839,  a  few  months  before  his  death. 

His  story  is  a  sad  one,  yet  its  like  may  be  told  of  many,  some  of  whom 
triumphed  over,  while  others  succumbed  to,  a  dismal  fate. 

His  play,  Gisijjjnis,  was  written,  or  rather  completed,  in  "  coffee-houses,"  and 
upon  little  slips  of  paper.  Where  or  how  he  was  lodged  nobody  knew.  Sickened  by 
"  repeated  delays  and  disappointments,"  when  he  sought  admission  into  periodicals, 
employment  as  a  translator,  willing  to  be  a  literary  drudge,  a  bookseller's  hack,  any- 
thing that  could  keep  away  actual  starvation — for  it  had  nearly  come  to  that  when  a 
friend  once  discovered  him,  and  ascertained  that  he  had  been  three  days  without 
food — no  wonder  he  "  wished  he  could  lie  down  quietly,  die,  and  be  forgotten." 
Banim,  having  missed  him  for  many  weeks,  went  in  search  of,  and  found,  him  in  a 
miserable  attic.  "  His  landlady  spoke  of  him  in  terms  of  pity,  represented  him  as 
in  great  distress ;  she  was  afraid  he  denied  himself  the  commonest  necessaries  ;  he 
appeared  in  bad  spirits,  dressed  but  indifferently,  shut  himself  up  for  days  together 
in  his  room  without  sending  for  any  provisions,  and  when  he  went  out,  it  was  only  at 
nightfall."  Yet  he  might  have  had  help  ;  more  than  one  of  his  good  and  loving 
brothers  would  have  given  it,  not  out  of  superfluities,  but  out  of  needs  ;  and  when 
Banim  tendered  aid  (although  Banim  was  himself,  at  that  time,  hardly  better  off)  it 
was  indignantly  rejected.  He  had  the  proverbial  waywardness  of  genius  ;  the  pride 
that  does  not  ape  humility :  he  had  all  sorts  of  aliases,  and  shrunk  from  giving 
notoriety  to  his  own  name.  He  seems  to  have  had  a  morbid  horror  of  patronage, 
and  turned  away  with  apparent  loathing  from  even  the  friendship  that  would  have 
ministered  to  his  necessities. 


230  MEMORIES. 


His  novel,  "  The  Collegians,"  did,  indeed,  find  its  way  to  fame,  and  so  did  his 
tales  of  "  The  Munster  Festivals,"  but  the  charmer  whispered  to  him  in  vain  ;*  his 
very  heart  seemed  blighted ;  and  he  sought  and,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  found  shelter  at 
the  foot  of  the  Cross. 

In  1836,  when  I  saw  him  at  Limerick,  he  had  determined  upon  joining  some 
religious  fraternity.  He  had  obtained  and  nourished  an  idea  that  his  novels  were 
sins,  of  which  he  ought  to  repent ;  and  that  poetry  was  an  offering  at  the  feet  of 
Satan,  instead  of  grateful  incense  to  the  God  of  Mercy  and  of  Love.  As  a  preparation 
for  his  future,  one  gloomy  night  he  burned  all  his  manuscripts,  and  wrote  no  more ; 
he  joined  the  "  Society  of  Christian  Brothers  " — "  a  society  that,  besides  fulfilling  all 
the  pious  exercises  of  the  monastic  state,  devotes  its  best  energies  to  the  religious 
and  moral  instruction  of  the  children  of  the  poor."  In  this  new  vocation  he  might 
have  been  very  useful ;  but  the  lamp  had  burned  down,  there  was  little  oil  left,  it 
flickered  and  died  out. 

On  the  12th  of  June,  1840,  he  was  laid  in  "the  little  burying-ground "  on 
Shandon  Hill,  Cork,  where,  as  he  had  written,  "  the  headstones  of  a  few  Brothers 
invite  us  to  a  de  profundis  and  a  thought  on  the  end  of  all  things."  It  was  of  fever 
he  died  ;  but  the  seed  of  death  had  been  planted  "long  ago,"  and  he  was  an  easy 
victim  to  the  common  enemy — or  friend — of  humankind.  Thus  his  prophecy  of 
himself  was  fulfilled  : — 

"  In  the  time  of  my  boyhood  I  had  a  strange  feeling, 
That  I  was  to  die  in  the  noon  of  my  day." 

I  recall  him,  and  with  mournful  satisfaction,  as  I  saw  him  at  Cork  in  1839  ;  he 
was  dressed  not  as  a  monk,  but  in  the  half-clerical  garb  of  "  the  Brothers."  The 
melancholy  of  his  countenance,  and  the  subdued  solemnity  of  manner  that  had 
impressed  me  in  his  youth,  had  become  deeper,  more  solemn,  and  more  sad.  I  can 
but  compare  him  then  to  a  hunted  stag,  that,  wayworn,  panting,  and  shaken  in  limb 
and  heart  by  efforts  to  escape,  rolls  its  large,  earnest,  and  melancholy  eyes,  as  it 
draws  a  last  breath  and  sinks  on  the  sward  a  victim  to  eager  and  relentless  hounds. 

But  the  fate  of  Gerald  Griffin  niiight  have  been  far  different.  He  had  to  endure 
no  self-reproach  ;  nothing  of  immorality  or  wrong-doing  had  engendered  remorse. 
He  was  not,  as  his  friend  Banim  was,  a  martyr  to  disease  ;  indeed,  his  health  never 
gave  way  in  the  contest ;  he  had  friends  who,  if  not  wealthy,  were  prosperous,  who 
had  helped,  and  would  have  continued  to  help,  him  "  up  the  steep  ;"  appreciating 
admirers  were  numerous,  and  critics  had  never  been  "  unkind,"  He  was  simply  a 
coward  in  the  battle  of  life.  He  had  suffered  privations  and  disappointments  ;  but 
who  has  obtained  literary  distinction  without  them  ?  These  were  almost  his  only 
pangs  ;  and  when  hope  altogether  left  him,  and  he  sought  escape  in  solitude  and 
ascetic  gloom,  victory  was  almost  within  his  reach,  and  he  knew  it  to  be  so ;  he 
"  gave  in"  when  he  might  have  run  the  race  that  was  set  before  him,  to  arrive  in 
triumph  at  the  goal,  and  to  wear  the  crown  he  could  have  won. 

*  Twenty  yeai-s  after  his  fli'st  attempts  to  bring  it  on  the  stage,  the  rejected  of  the  managers,  his  play,  Gisippus, 
was  produced  at  Drury  Lane  by  Maoready,  and  was  "  eminently  successful."  Griffin  had  then  been  two  years  in 
the  grave. 


SAMUEL  LOYEE. 

If  a  Memory  of  Samuel  Lover  is  associated  with  that  of  Lady  Morgan,  it  is  not 
because  they  were  friends.  They  were  friends,  indeed,  at  an  earlier  period  of  the 
young  poet-artist's  career,  but  "  my  lady,"  perhaps,  assumed  too  much,  and  Lover 
was  disposed  to  concede  too  little,  for  she  considered  him  indebted  to  her  for  much 
of  his  fame,  while  he  was  disposed  to  think  she  stood  in  the  way  of  it ;  and  they 
quarrelled  thenceforward  for  their  lives. 

Lover  was  born  in  Dublin  in  1792,  and  died  in  1869.  He  was  twice  married, 
and  leaves  a  daughter  by  his  first  wife  ;  she  is  the  wife  of  a  distinguished  German 
professor.  He  enjoyed,  for  some  years  before  his  death,  one  of  the  literary  pensions. 
Rest,  and  a  steady  income  derived  from  his  songs  and  plays,  made  his  later  days 
comfortable.  He  resided  some  time  at  Sevenoaks,  removing  to  Jersey,  where  in 
tranquillity  and  comfort,  carefully  watched  and  tended  by  his  devoted  wife,  he  died. 
He  is  buried  at  Kensal  Green,  where  she  has  erected  a  monument  to  his  memory. 

Lover  began  life  as  a  miniature  painter,  and  attained  high  professional  standing. 
Some  of  his  productions  would  not  suffer  by  comparison  with  those  of  the  best  artists 
of  his  time.  But  at  a  very  early  age  he  wrote  verses  and  composed  music — 
borrowing,  no  doubt,  generally  from  old  or  obsolete  Irish  airs,  as  in  the  case  of 
"  Rory  O'More"  and  "  Molly  Carew;"  others,  however,  he  claimed  to  have  origi- 
nated, as  "  The  Angels'  Whisper."  Of  the  science  he  knew  little  ;  but  he  had  a 
correct  ear,  refined  taste,  and  a  voice  of  limited  compass,  but  much  expression.  He 
was  also  an  admirable  raconteur — of  Irish  stories  especially.  Those  who  have  heard 
him  recite  his  "  New  Pittateys  "  and  "  Will  ye  lend  me  the  loan  of  a  gridiron  ?"  will 
not  easily  forget  them.  He  also  wrote  a  dozen  or  more  of  successful  dramas,  some 
of  which  keep  places  on  the  stage,  as  The  Irish  Lion  and  The  White  Horse  of  the 
Peppers^'  He  did,  indeed,  make  an  efi"ort  to  act  as  well  as  to  write  them  ;  but  his 
acting  was  a  failure,  although  he  succeeded  in  giving  reading-lectures  that  were 
popular  both  in  England  and  America. 

I  copy  Mrs.  Hall's  Memory  of  the  artist-poet : — 

"  The  much-admired  novel  of  '  Rory  O'More '  grew  out  of  the  popularity  of  the 
song  of  that  name.  The  melody  had  a  wonderful  '  run ' — on  street  organs  as  well 
as  in  the  drawing-room.  It  keeps  its  place  in  both,  and  is  a  favourite  with  our  con- 
tinental neighbours.  Not  long  ago,  at  Brussels,  we  heard  the  bugler  of  the  omnibus 
that  runs  to  Waterloo  making  the  streets  re-echo  to  the  playful  air  of  '  Rory  O'More.' 

"  Mr.  Lover's  '  Handy  Andy  '  was  the  most  national,  if  not  the  most  successful,  of 

*  Much  of  their  success  was  omng  to  the  admirable  acting  of  Power.  Poor  Tyrone  Power,  who  was  lost  in  the 
President  (the  ship  that  sailed  from  New  York  with  favouring  breezes,  and  full  of  passengers  buoyant  with  hope, 
some  twenty  years  ago,  and  has  never  since  been  heard  of,  even  by  a  fragment  of  wreck),  has  had  no  successor  on 
the  modem  stage.  He  was  the  very  embodiment  of  Irish  character — playing  with  equal  zest,  force,  and  truth  the 
Irish  gentleman  and  the  Irish  bog-trotter.  Indeed,  in  a  play  {The  Groves  of  Blarney),  written  for  him  by  Mrs.  S.  C. 
Hall  in  1830,  and  which  was  performed  ninety  nights  at  the  Adelphi,  he  sustained  three  characters,  each  very 
distinct  and  different  from  the  other — a  gentleman  of  the  old  school,  a  peasant  of  the  better  class,  and  a  "  natural " 
(a  sort  of  half-idiot).  Power  was  a  little,  active,  energetic  man,  much  pock-marked,  yet  with  a  countenance  capable 
of  very  varied  expression  ;  his  brogue  was  rich  and  oily;  he  never  "over-did"  his  parts;  he  seemed  to  be,  and 
was,  an  Irishman  to  the  very  life.  He  was  not,  however,  a  mere  imitator  of  his  countrymen  ;  he  had  a  capacious 
mind,  and  his  personations  were  neither  chances  nor  copies. 


232  MEMORIES. 


his  Irish  novels,  abounding  in  that  racy  Irish  humour,  and  illuminated  by  sudden 
flashes  of  wit,  with  which  he  knew  how  to  enrich  his  inimitable  shorter  stories.  As 
a  lecturer  Mr.  Lover  had  to  contend  against  physical  defects  which  would  have 
swamped  a  less  persevering  or  adventurous  spirit  at  the  onset ;  but  in  England  and 
America  he  lectured  with  great  success.  His  voice,  both  in  singing  and  speaking, 
was  feeble,  yet  he  managed  to  make  expression  take  the  place  of  strength ;  and 
the  interest  of  his  audienee,  once  excited,  he  never  suffered  to  flag.  His  features 
were  really  better  than  those  of  his  matchless  countryman,  '  Tom  Moore,'  but  they 
had  not  the  buoyant,  joyeuse  expression,  the  '  fly-away-care '  bewitchment  of 

'  The  poet  of  all  circles,  and  the  darling  of  his  own.' 

Still,  the  next  delight  to  hearing  Moore  discourse  the  sweet  music  of  his  country  was 
to  hear  '  Sam  Lover '  murmur  '  The  Angels'  Whisper,'  '  The  Fairy  Boy,'  '  The  Four- 
leaved  Shamrock,'  or  abandoning  pathos  for  humour,  burst  into  '  Molly  Carew,'  or 
any  one  of  those  '  rollicking '  yet  delicate  songs  that  never  called  a  blush,  except  of 
innocent  pleasure,  to  a  woman's  cheek.     Certainly  Lover 

'  Ran  through  each  change  of  the  lyre,' 

and  if  not  exactly  '  master  of  all,'  out  of  more  than  two  hundred  lyrics  he  has  left 
some  that  will  strike  the  heart,  and  dim,  as  well  as  brighten,  the  eyes  of  all  true 
lovers  of  genuine  melody  and  poetry  as  long  as  the  English  language  endures."* 


THE  EEY.    GEOEGE   CEOLY. 

Ceoly  excelled  in  many  ways — poet,  dramatist,  biographer,  novelist,  historian,  com- 
mentator, public  speaker,  preacher,  and  political  writer.  He  wrote  a  successful  play. 
Pride  shall  have  a  Fall ;  he  was  the  author  of  two  popular  novels,  "  Salathiel "  and 
"  Marston  ;"  and  he  produced  several  works  on  abstruse  matters  of  theology — among 
the  rest  a  new  interpretation  of  the  Apocalypse  of  St.  John. 

Jerdan  says  that  Croly's  two  sisters,  his  wife  (a  Miss  Begbie),  and  his  eldest 
daughter  were  "poetesses"  of  no  mean  order. 

Croly  was  a  large  and  heavy  man,  ponderous  in  appearance  and  in  manner ;  his 
head  was  much  beyond  the  usual  size;  the  forehead  broad  but  receding;  the  organ 
of  benevolence  was  not  there,  and  there  was  very  little  of  that  of  veneration.  It 
was  essentially  a  Celtic  head.  His  voice  was  loud  and  solemn,  but  not  impressive  ; 
there  was  nothing  of  concihation  in  it ;  nothing  of  the  gentle  and  persuasive  elements 
so  valuable  to  the  Christian  teacher.  I  did  not  often  hear  him  preach :  he  had  a 
sort  of  rude  and,  indeed,  angry  eloquence,  that  would  have  stood  him  in  better  stead 
at  the  bar  than  in  the  pulpit.     His  voice,  aspect,  and  manner  altogether,  would  have 


*  A  memoir  of  Samuel  Lover  has  been  pubUshed  by  one  of  his  friends  (Bayle  Bernard,  who  has  died  since  it 
was  published).  No  doubt  the  materials  were  furnished  by  Lover's  widow.  The  work  is  in  so  far  satisfactory  that 
it  does  ample  justice  to  his  value  as  an  author,  and  his  worth  as  a  man.  But  it  cannot  be  described  as  altogether 
satisfactory. 


THE  REV.    GEORGE   CROLY.  233 

"told"  well  on  the  Bench,  where  he  would  certainly  have  been  "a  terror  to  evil- 
doers." It  will  be  seen  that  Croly  did  not  impress  me  favourably;  yet  at  one  period 
I  was  thrown  much  in  his  way :  we  were  associated  to  promote  the  purpose  of  a 
private  charity,  and  he  wrote  weekly,  from  1839  to  1846,  the  leading  articles  for 
the  Britarinia  newspaper,  of  which  I  was  some  years  the  directing  editor.  He  was 
a  fierce  politician,  and  hated  political  opponents. 

In  1838  I  applied  to  him  for  some  aid  to  a  biography ;  he  indignantly  refused  it, 
writing,  "  I  must  request  that  nothing  whatever  shall  be  said  about  me  or  my  career 
in  any  work  of  yours,  or  where  you  have  any  influence.  I  should  regard  it  as  the 
last  personal  offence.     There  is,  therefore,  an  end  of  the  matter." 

He  changed  his  mind,  and  some  time  afterwards  supplied  me  with  a  long  memoir, 
in  which,  however,  he  was  by  no  means  communicative  concerning  himself ;  indeed, 
I  had  afterwards  reason  to  know  that  the  subject  might  have  been  distasteful  to  him, 
and  with  good  reason. 

One  of  the  latest  incidents  of  his  life  was  very  gratifying  to  him.  During  the 
mayoralty  of  his  friend  Sir  Francis  Graham  Moon,  his  admirers  and  parishioners 
subscribed  to  present  to  him  a  testimonial.  Strange  to  say,  the  testimonial  was  his 
own  bust.* 

Croly  was  eloquent  in  the  brief  speech  he  delivered  on  the  occasion  :  although 
aged  then,  he  seemed  vivacious  in  body  and  in  mind. 

He  was  born  in  1780,  and  died  suddenly,  near  his  residence  in  Bloomsbury 
Square,  on  the  24th  of  November,  1860.  In  England  he  was  first  a  curate  on 
the  skirts  of  bleak  and  barren  Dartmoor  ;  and  it  was  not  until  1835  that  church 
preferment  came  to  him.  There  was  a  huge  gap  between,  and  if  Croly  were  a 
"  disappointed  clergyman,"  it  is  no  wonder.  To  himself,  no  doubt,  he  refers  in 
these  lines : — 

"Hast  thou,  Man  of  Intellect ! 
Seen  thy  soaring  spirit  checked ; 
Struggling  in  the  righteous  cause, 
Champion  of  God's  slighted  laws; 
Seen  the  slave  or  the  supine 
Win  the  prize  that  should  be  thine  V 

For  some  time  he  had  the  chaplaincy  of  the  Foundling  Hospital,  but  resigned  it 
because  some  of  the  managers  of  the  charity  thought  his  sermons  to  be  above  the 
comprehension  of  his  hearers.  Croly  protested  that  his  auditors  were  not  merely 
the  children  and  servants  of  the  institution,  but  dwellers  in  the  neighbourhood— a 
neighbourhood  which,  he  said,  "contained  perhaps  the  most  intelligent  population 
in  England,"  and  who  had  become  indifferent  or  disdainful  of  Christianity  because  of 
"  the  verbiage  of  which  they  heard  so  much." 

"  Their  alienation,"  he  wroie,  "  is  not  from  religion,  but  from  the  senseless  argu- 
ment and  the  shallow  appeal,  from  the  tiresome  reiteration  of  obsolete  trivialities  and 
dreary  truisms,  from  pathos  without  feeling,  and  all  that  dull  pantomime  of  oratory 
in  which  a  white  handkerchief  is  a  figure  of  speech." 

*  That  bust  he  bequeathed  to  the  parish,  to  be  placed  in  the  church. 


234  MEMORIES. 


4 


EEY.    CHARLES   MATIIEIK 

Among  those  who  attained  large  popularity  in  Dublin  when  Lady  Morgan  was 
famous  there,  was  the  Rev.  Chaeles  Matukin.  It  was  he  who  introduced  me  to 
"  my  lady,"  and  he  honoured  me  with  his  "  patronage."  I  do  not  mean  the  sentence 
as  a  sneer,  for  he  had  then  achieved  renown,  and  I  was  but  on  the  threshold  of  "  a 
life  of  letters."  I  had  then  published  a  poem  which  attracted  his  attention;  it  is 
utterly  forgotten,  as  it  ought  to  be. 

As  the  author  of  two  successful  tragedies,  Bertram  and  Manuel  (in  which  the 
elder  Kean  sustained  the  leading  parts),  and  of  several  popular  novels,  the  name  is 
not  one  that  I  can  pass  over  in  my  "  Memories,"  independently  of  the  obligation  he 
conferred  on  me.  Moreover,  he  was  an  eloquent  preacher,  although  probably  he 
mistook  his  calling  when  he  entered  the  Chtirch.  Among  his  many  eccentricities  I 
remember  one  :  it  was  his  habit  to  compose  while  walking  about  his  large  and 
scantily-furnished  house ;  and  always,  on  such  occasions,  he  placed  a  wafer  on  his 
forehead — a  sign  that  none  of  his  family  or  servants  were  to  address  him  then — to 
endanger  the  loss  of  a  thought  that  might  enlighten  a  world.* 

He  was  always  in  "difficulties."  In  Lady  Morgan's  Memoirs  it  is  stated  that 
Sir  Charles  Morgan  raised  a  subscription  for  Maturin,  and  supplied  him  with  £50. 
"  The  use  he  made  of  the  money  was  to  give  a  grand  party.  There  was  little  fur- 
niture in  the  reception-room,  but  at  one  end  of  it  there  had  been  erected  an  old 
theatrical  property-throne,  and  under  a  canopy  of  crimson  velvet  sat — Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Maturin !  "     He  was  born  in  1782,  and  died  in  1824. 


EICHARD   LALOE   SHIEL. 

Although  Richard  Lalor  Shiel  was  Master  of  the  Mint,  he  was  also  the  author 
of  a  successful  tragedy,  Evadne,  and  took  high  stand  as  an  author.  He  was  born  in 
1791,  and  died  in  1851,  at  Florence,  where  he  was  British  Envoy.  As  one  of  the 
leading  Roman  Catholics  who  fought  side  by  side  with  O'Connell  for  the  "  eman- 
cipation "  they  obtained,  he  made  himself  a  name  in  Ireland — where,  however,  it  is 
forgotten  now,  for  he  was  a  staunch  adherent  to  the  Union  that  binds  the  two 
countries,  and  did  not  follow  his  "  leader  "  in  his  insane  efforts  for  "  Repeal."  Shiel 
was  the  very  opposite  of  O'Connell  in  person,  mind,  and  pursuits  ;  the  one  was 
"burly  and  big,"  the  other  small  of  frame,  and  constitutionally  delicate;  the  one 
had  a  powerful  voice,  that  could  have  filled  the  Coliseum,  that  of  the  other  was  thin 
and  weak,  and  sometimes  fell  into  a  positive  squeak.  Yet  Shiel  was  perhaps  more 
of  an  orator  than  O'Connell ;  he  was  not  a  ready  speaker,  and  had  to  learn  his  best 
speeches  by  heart.     His  most  famous  oration  is  in  print — that  delivered  at  Pen- 

*  The  anecdote  is  related  by  Lockhart  in  Ms  "  Life  of  Scott."  But  I  have  seen  Maturin  so  "  decorated."  Sir 
Walter  Scott  described  his  tragedy  of  Bertram  as  "  grand  and  powerful ;  the  langnage  most  animated  and  poetical ; 
and  the  characters  sketched  with  a  masterly  enthusiasm." 


SIR   JAMES  EMERSON  TENNENT,   BART.  235 

nington  Heath.  It  is  a  grand  display  of  eloquence,  and  did  much  to  accomplish  the 
object  for  which  the  great  meeting  was  held — to  obtain  the  co-operation  of  England  in 
pressing  the  Catholic  claims  on  the  Government.  But  that  speech  was  not  delivered 
as  it  was  printed.  It  was  said,  and  generally  believed  at  the  time,  that  he  lost  the 
written  copy  of  it  en  route  to  the  place  of  assembly. 

He  was  a  man  of  kindly  nature,  very  agreeable  in  manners,  and  a  thorough 
gentleman ;  while  his  person,  though  small,  was  much  in  his  favour. 


THOMAS   COLLEY  GEATTAK 

There  was  another  eminent  Irishman — Thomas  CoiiLEY  Geattan — who  for  more 
than  half  a  century  occupied  a  prominent  position  in  literature,  and  a  position  still 
more  prominent  in  society.  Though  an  aged  man  before  he  died,  he  looked  young  to 
the  last ;  and  his  natural  gaiety  of  mind  and  manners  seemed  but  little  impaired  by 
years.  He  cannot  be  described  as  an  author  by  profession  ;  his  novels  were  results  of 
frequent  travels  on  the  Continent,  a  long  residence  in  Belgium,  and,  it  may  be,  a 
general  love  of  literature ;  but  Fate  had  been  more  auspicious  to  him  than  to  many 
of  his  brethren  of  the  pen.  He  was  for  many  years  Consul  at  Boston,  and  after- 
wards held  a  similar  post  at  Antwerp,  where  English  visitors  ever  found  in  him  a 
ready  adviser  and  friend.  From  that  post  he  retired  in  favour  of  one  of  his  sons, 
spending  the  remainder  of  his  days  in  elegant  and  comfortable  leisure,  with  nothing 
to  do  but  to  enjoy  himself;  and  that  he  did  to  the  full.  He  was  born  in  Dublin  in 
1796,  and  died  in  July,  1864. 


SIE  JAMES   EMEESON   TENNENT,   BAET. 

Another  eminent  Irishman  was  Sir  James  Emerson  Tennent,  Bart.  I  knew 
Mr.  Emerson  before  he  became  famous  and  took  the  name  of  his  lady,  when  his 
prospect  of  representing  in  Parliament  his  native  city  (Belfast)  was  remote  and 
small,  although  from  the  commencement  of  his  career  he  gave  promise  of  achieving 
the  distinction  at  which  he  aimed.  He  was  active,  energetic,  and  intelligent ;  a  good 
and  fluent  speaker ;  and  his  latest  work,  resulting  from  his  official  residence  at 
Ceylon,  supplies  conclusive  evidence  that  his  powers  of  observation  were  great,  his 
capacity  large,  his  abilities,  indeed,  of  a  high  order ;  and  that  it  was  by  no  means 
altogether  by  chance  that  he  was  elevated  to  a  position  which,  at  the  outset  of  life, 
seemed  so  far  out  of  his  reach.  Moreover,  he  had  personal  advantages  which 
assisted  him  when  other  aids  were  his  :  he  was  handsome  of  person,  and  essentially 
a  courteous  gentleman,  who  neglected  none  of  the  minor  arts  by  which  friends  are 
made.     He  was  born  early  in  the  present  century,  and  died  in  March,  1869. 


236  MEMORIES. 


SHERIDAE"   KI^OWLES. 

And  surely  a  word  is  due  to  the  memory  of  Sheridan  Knowles.  He  was  thoroughly 
GENUINE — simple,  natural,  and  good — a  nature  unspoiled  by  great  success.  He  was 
humble  as  a  child  when  the  press  and  the  public  proclaimed  him  the  first  writer  of 
tragedies  of  the  age ;  and  he  had  a  right  to  high  rank,  if  to  produce  a  successful 
tragedy  be,  as  it  is  considered  to  be,  the  loftiest  achievement  of  genius. 

Yes,  he  was  a  very  simple  man ;  there  was  not  an  atom  of  affectation,  pretence, 
or  assumption  about  him ;  he  looked  what  he  was — a  child  of  nature,  although  his 
associations  had  been  all  his  life  long  with  the  footlights. 

Macready  told  me  of  his  utter  astonishment  when  Knowles  read  to  the  great  actor 
the  grandest  of  his  plays — Virginius.  "What!"  he  said,  half  pleasantly  and  half 
seriously,  "you  the  author  of  that  tragedy!  Why,  you  look  more  like  the  captain 
of  a  Leith  smack  ! "  And  so  he  did  in  those  days,  for  he  had  a  ruddy  complexion 
that  indicated  little  of  the  lamp,  and  a  cheerfulness  of  air  and  manner  that  spoke 
nothing  of  hope  deferred. 

He  was  but  a  poor  actor.  The  "  brogue  "  never  quite  left  him,  and  his  mind 
seemed  more  intent  on  the  matter  than  the  manner  of  the  stage.  Yet  in  some  parts 
in  his  own  plays  he  achieved  considerable  repute — notably  as  Master  Walter  in  the 
Hunchback.  His  earnestness  and  deep  feeling  were  sound  atonements  for  lack  of 
dramatic  skill. 

It  is  known  that  in  his  later  days  he  became  (or  at  all  events  took  the  role  of)  a 
Baptist  minister.  It  was  not  my  good  fortune  ever  to  have  heard  him  preach,  which 
I  now  much  regret,  although  I  am  told  it  was  a  performance  that  one  might  have 
been  satisfied  to  witness  but  once. 

I  remember  Harley  relating  to  me  an  encounter  with  him  in  an  omnibus.  Harley 
said,  "Why,  Sheridan,  you  have  not  been  to  see  us  lately."  "  Oh,  no  !  "  was  the 
reply,  in  a  tone  subdued  to  sadness  ;  "I  have  given  up  all  such  sinful  thoughts  and 
pleasures  !"  After  a  while,  however,  the  old  leaven  was  uppermost.  Suddenly  he 
seemed  alive,  and  exclaimed,  "  But,  by  the  way,  how  do  you  get  on  with  your  pan- 
tomime this  year  ?  " 

We  can  scarcely  fancy  the  change — from  the  pleasant  to  the  sedate,  the  gay  to 
the  lugubrious — Sheridan  Knowles  "  dofiing  his  gaudy  suit,"  his  coat  of  motley,  and 
becoming 

"  by  commutation  strange, 
A  reverend  divine." 

But  whatever  and  wherever  he  was,  Sheridan  Knowles  was  in  earnest — simple, 
honest,  and  true  always.  He  was  born  in  Dublin  in  1784,  and  died  in  London  on 
the  1st  of  December,  1862,  having  been  twice  married,  and  leaving  children  by  his 
first  wife. 


THE  REV.    FRANCIS  MAHONY.  237 


WILLIAM   CAELETOI^. 

I  KNEW  but  little  of  Cajrleton.  Although  undoubtedly  a  powerful  writer,  a  vigorous 
and  accurate  delineator  of  Irisb  character — one,  indeed,  whose  works  will  always 
have  value,  an  increasing  value,  as  Irish  peculiarities  become  less  and  less  distinct 
and  formidable — he  was  not  respected  in  the  better  circles  of  the  city  in  which 
he  dwelt,  Dublin  ;  while  his  habits  were  such  as,  in  a  degree,  to  exclude  him  from 
society. 

He  was  essentially  a  peasant — peasant-born  and  peasant-bred.  Educated  among 
those  who  nourished  intense  hatred  of  England  and  Protestantism ;  brought  up  to 
be  a  priest ;  mingling  from  childhood  with  the  people  he  was  afterwards  to  depict, 
acquiring  the  manners  he  was  to  describe,  and  cherishing  the  prejudices  which  formed 
the  staple  of  his  stories,  it  is  no  marvel  if  he  were  a  coarse  delineator,  and  exhibited 
the  worst  features  of  the  national  character. 

In  the  cabin,  the  hedge  school,  the  "  shebeen,"  among  "  the  factions,"  he  received 
his  early  education  ;  and  the  "  schooling"  appertaining,  to  them  no  one  has  ever 
pictured  with  such  fidelity. 

The  grade  he  pictures  is  below  that  of  Banim,  and  far  beneath  that  of  Grriffin. 
They  had  much  the  same  training  ;  but  the  companionship  of  these  two  was  not 
confined,  as  was  that  of  Carleton,  to  the  classes  that  perpetuated  prejudice ;  they 
were,  by  comparison,  gentlemen  ;  they  had,  at  least,  associated  with  gentlemen, 
while  he  was  what  in  Ireland  they  call  a  "  Jackeen."  Yet  perhaps  he  surpassed 
them  in  the  power  with  which  he  painted  pictures  from  the  life,  and  has  certainly 
left  behind  him  books  that  will,  one  day  or  other,  interest  as  traits  and  stories  of 
a  time  as  much  forgotten  as  is  the  old  Norman  language  in  the  Irish  barony  of 
Forth. 

There  were  other  reasons  that  made  him  lose  caste,  low  as  it  was.  He  "  turned  " 
more  than  once — was  a  Protestant  one  day,  a  Catholic  the  next,  and  again  a  Pro- 
testant, when  the  conviction  of  the  moment  was  stilled  or  stifled. 

He  was  rather  above  than  below  the  middle  size,  thick-set,  with  a  face  of  the 
lower  Irish  type,  giving  little  indication  of  the  great  ability  he  undoubtedly  possessed^ 
For  the  rest,  he  had  one  of  the  Crown  pensions  of  £200  a  year.  There  were  scores 
of  his  countrymen  by  whom  it  was  better  deserved,  but,  like  most  things  that  are 
done  in  Ireland,  it  savoured  of  "  a  job."  He  was  born  in  1798,  and  died  in  January, 
1869. 


THE   EEY.   EEANCIS  MAHONY. 

There  are  many  who  regret  the  absence  from  earth  of  "  Father  Prout  " — the  Rev. 
Francis  Mahony  ;  not  that  he  had  many  of  the  quaUties  that  endear  man  to  man. 
At  one  period  of  his  life  he  had,  I  believe,  very  social  qualities- — perhaps  too  many. 
He  was  a  hon  comfagnon  in  his  early  manhood,  but  of  late  he  was  entirely  absorbed 
in  himself.     His  visits  to  London  were  not  often  ;  they  seemed  hurried,  as  if  he 


longed  to  return  to  his  life  of  mingled  anchorite  and  sensualist  in  Paris,  where  of 
him  and  his  attic  many  strange  stories  are  told. 

Francis  Mahony  was  born  in  Cork,  in  the  year  1800.  His  father  was  a  respected 
merchant  of  that  city,  and  in  his  youth  he  lacked  nothing  that  money  could  procure. 
As  a  Koman  Catholic,  however,  and  the  son  of  a  tradesman,  he  did  not  find  his  way 
into  "  society,"  for  the  prejudices  of  religion  and  caste  ran  high  there  at  that  time. 
He  was,  therefore,  educated  in  France  and  in  Rome.  Maynooth  did  not  then  exist : 
happy  would  it  be  for  Ireland  if  it  had  never  existed.  The  Irish  priests  that  were 
educated  on  the  Continent,  by  associating  with  gentlemen,  and  in  comparative  freedom 
from  fetters  of  bigotry,  became  enlightened,  intelligent,  and  liberal. 

In  1835,  or  thereabouts,  Mahony  became  a  permanent  resident  in  London, 
joining  a  "  band  of  brothers  "  who  founded  and  conducted  Fraser's  Magazine.  It 
was  then  different  from  what  it  is  now.  It  was  very  brilliant ;  its  writers  were  the 
most  renowned  "  wits  "  of  the  metropolis  ;  but  its  object  was  to  imitate  the  worst 
features  of  Blackwood ;  and  if  it  gave  the  world  much  that  was  valuable,  it  contri- 
buted largely  to  the  worst  passions  that  are  public  and  private  afflictions. 

Maclise  was  their  artist ;  he  was  then  beginning  his  career,  and  carefully  con- 
cealed his  connection  with  the  periodical.* 

I  spent  an  evening  at  one  of  their  Symposiums,  held  in  an  obscure  public-house, 
somewhere  in  Soho,  with  the  "  wits "  who  then  sustained  Fraser's  Magazine. 
"  Prout "  was  in  the  chair."  There  were  present  Percy  Banks,  who  married  a  sister 
of  the  artist  Maclise  ;  Churchill,  a  reckless  man  of  genius,  who  was  literally  a  "  man 
about  town ; "  Frazer,  who  edited  the  Foreign  Quarterly  Magazine ;  and  others  whose 
names  I  do  not  remember.  They  were,  excepting  Maclise,  fast  men  all  of  them. 
Their  habits  did  not  suit  mine  ;  and  though  I  know  there  was  abundance  of  wit  as 
well  as  wine,  I  do  not  recall  the  evening  with  pleasure.  Mahony  was  a  "  wit"  of 
the  better  and  of  the  worst  order ;  a  writer  of  great  ability ;  while  his  knowledge  of 
the  dead  languages  was  profound  and  ever  ready.  His  translations  of  several  modern 
songs  into  Latin  are  among  the  triumphs  of  the  pen.  His  attempt  to  show  the 
number  of  foreign  tongues,  ancient  and  modern,  from  which  Moore  borrowed  his 
.rich  melodies— by  pretended  extracts  from  many  imagined  writers — are  among  the 
marvels  of  authorship. 

Mahony  generally  "  gave  us  a  call "  when  he  visited  London.  Sometimes  he 
would  enter  our  drawing-room,  keep  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  look  all  about  him, 
make  some  observation  such  as  "  You  have  changed  your  curtains  since  I  was  here 
last,"  bid  us  good  morning,  and  retire— his  visit  occupying  some  three  mmutes.  At 
other  times  he  would  sit  and  have  "  a  chat"  about  old  times  and  forgotten  people  ; 
then  his  remarks  would  be  "pithy"  and  to  the  point,  the   geniality  of  his   nature 


*  The  earlier  volumes  of  Fraser's  Magazine,  between  1829  and  1834  or  1835,  contam  many  portraits  of  dis- 
tingTiished  persons  drawn  and  etched  by  Maclise  ;  they  were  associated  with  a  page  of  biography  and  criticism  trom 
the  pen  of  Dr.  Maginn.  As  these  matters  were  sometimes  bitterly  sarcastic,  a  degree  ot  mystery  was  kept  up  as 
to  artist  and  author.  The  portraits  may  therefore  be  said  to  have  been  obtained  «  suiTeptitiously  yet  they  are 
admirable  as  likenesses,  and  capital  as  specimens  of  art.  Few  ornone  of  the  persons  portrayed  actuaUy  f*  for  their 
portraits.  The  series  would  form  a  curious  and  interesting  collection  if  brought  together,  although  nine  out  of  ten 
of  the  subiects  are  now  gone  from  earth.  I  cannot  at  the  moment  recall  any  who  are  now  living  except  Thomas 
Cariyte  and  Mrs  S.  C.  h!i1.  The  whole  of  the  pages  have  been  recently  coUected,  admii'ably  edited,  largely  added 
to,  and  published  by  Chatto  and  Windus. 


would  come  out,  and  he  was  the  pleasant,  intelligent,  and  agreeable  companion. 
But  genial  he  was  not ;  he  was  terse,  sharp,  and  often  bitter  ;  and  although  his 
ecclesiastical  training  had  rendered  him  cautious  to  a  degree  that  amounted  to  sus- 
picion, occasionally  he  would  indulge  in  praise  as  well  as  censure,  and  seem  to  enjoy 
the  one  as  much  as  he  did  the  other. 

No  doubt  he  was  a  Jesuit  as  well  as  a  priest.  He  was  accused,  indeed,  of  being 
neither  more  nor  less  than  "  a  spy  ;"  and  it  is  not  unlikely  that  he  was  in  continual 
communication  with  the  General  of  the  Order  concerning  a  hundred  things  of  which 
he  was  supposed  to  take  no  note. 

A  writer  in  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette  (C.  L.  G.),  who  knew  him  well,  asserts  that — 

"  He  might  have  had  a  cardinal's  hat  but  for  that  which  is  imputed  to  him  as  his  one  great  fault 
— conviviality.  At  Rome,  so  strongly  impressed  were  the  leading  men  of  the  Church  with  his 
hbilities  that  it  was  intimated  to  him  that  he  might  hope  to  rise  high  in  honours  ecclesiastical  if  he 
would  devote  his  exclusive  services  to  the  Pope.  He  assented  ;  a  period  of  probation  was  assigned, 
(luring  which  it  was  ascertained  that  his  notions  of  temperance  were  too  liberal  for  the  Church. 
Prout  told  me  the  temptation  he  had  at  Rome,  adding,  'Any  road,  thej''  say,  leads  to  Rome,  but 
would  it  not  have  been  odd  if  I  had  gone  to  seat  myself  there  through  the  Groves  of  Blarney  ?  ' 
I  treated  his  statement,  at  the  time,  as  a  joke,  but  from  one  of  the  highest  Church  authorities  in 
Paris  I  subsequently  had  full  confirmation  of  the  fact  that  the  cardinal's  hat  was  actually  offered 
to  him  in  prospect,  and  that  he  lost  the  distinction  as  I  have  intimated." 

During  the  later  years  of  his  life  he  resided  in  Paris,  occupying  an  entresol  in  the 
Rue  de  Moulins.  I  saw  him  there  but  once  :  he  was  toasting  a  mutton  chop  for  his 
dinner,  and  on  the  corner  of  his  table,  among  letters  and  MSS.,  was  a  worn  and  not 
very  clean  serviette — -his  table-cloth. 

His  habits  were,  indeed,  those  of  a  recluse ;  he  saw  little  or  no  society,  kept  no 
servant,  and  lived  a  life  the  very  opposite  to  that  of  a  gentleman.  He  was  every 
day  to  be  seen  at  Galignani's — seldom  anywhere  else,  yet  generally  silent  there — 
strolling  in,  greeting  few  or  none,  reading  the  papers,  conversing  not  at  all  on  tojjics 
of  the  day's  news,  and  returning  to  his  solitary  chamber  to  read  and  to  write.  He 
was  a  principal  proprietor  of  the  Globe  newspaper,  and,  of  course,  one  of  its  chief 
writers,  not  only  on  foreign,  but  on  home  subjects. 

A  generous  and  sympathising  friend  of  Mahony  thus  pictured  him  in  the  Pall 
Mall  Gazette  :  the  portrait  is  to  the  very  life  : — 

"Many  of  our  readers  must  have  remarked,  passing  in  and  out  the  reading-room  of 
Galignani's  Library  of  late  years,  a  figure  singular  enough  to  attract  a  glance  of  curiosity  even 
in  Paris.  The  figure  we  mean  was  that  of  a  little  eldeily  man  with  an  intellectual  head,  and 
whose  keen  bluish  eyes  had  a  queer  way  of  looking  up  sharply  over  the  rims  of  his  spectacles. 
His  garb  was  ecclesiastical  in  its  general  character,  but  above  all  was  the  garb  of  one  very  little 
careful  of  appearances ;  for  if  his  shirt  happened  to  be  white,  it  seldom  boasted  buttons,  and  there 
were  many  days  when  both  whiteness  and  buttons  were  wanting  to  it.  The  manner  of  this  little 
figure,  too,  was  as  quaint  and  interesting  as  his  appearance.  If  you  knew  him,  he  saluted  you 
with  some  quaint,  caustic  bit  of  badinage,  all  the  richer  for  a  touch  of  brogue  which  had  long  ceased 
to  be  provincial,  and  gave  only  a  fine  tinge  of  nationality  that  suited  the  speaker's  humour.  He 
would  make  some  half-droll  inquiry,  tell  some  droll  anecdote,  not  improbably  garnished  with  a  bit 
of  classic  parsley  in  the  form  of  a  quotation  from  Horace,  and  then,  as  likely  as  not,  would  dart 
off,  sticking  his  hands  in  his  coat  pockets,  without  saluting  either  yourself  or  the  companion  whom 
you  had  introduced  to  him." 

Mahony  was  born  at  Cork  in  1800,  and  died  at  Paris  in  1865. 


EYEE   EYANS   CEOWE. 

Another  of  the  Irish  writers  of  novels  with  whom  I  was  acquainted  is  Eyre  Evans 
Crowe.  They  are  forgotten  now,  but  "Yesterday  in  Ireland"  and  "To-Day  in 
Ireland  "  competed,  and  successfully,  with  the  wilder  fictions  of  Banim  and  Grrifiin  ; 
and  his  "  History  of  France  "  keeps  its  high  place  among  the  better  order  of  historical 
works.  Crowe  resided  many  years  in  Paris,  as  the  French  correspondent  of  news- 
papers, and  was',  for  a  time,  editor  of  the  Daily  Neics. 

I  knew  him  when  his  first  books  were  published,  and  had  some  intercourse  with 
him  in  Paris  more  than  once ;  but,  unfortunately  for  me,  I  saw  little  of  him  of  late 
years,  for  he  was  a  gentleman  of  rare  intelligence,  large  experience  in  life  and  in 
letters,  and  his  society  was  ever  agreeable  and  instructive.* 


THE   EEY.    EOBEET   WALSH. 
THE   EIGHT   HON.   JOHN  EDWAED   WALSH. 

I  HAVE  not  been  able  to  devote  much  space  to  this  group  of  Irish  "  worthies,"  but  I 
should  be  guilty  of  gross  neglect — of  ingratitude,  indeed — if  I  left  the  subject  without 
some  expressions  of  homage  and  affection  as  regards  my  long-valued  friend,  the  Rev. 
Robert  Walsh,  LL.D.,  and  his  most  admirable  and  eminent  son,  John  Edward 
Walsh,  the  late  Master  of  the  Rolls  in  Ireland. 

Dr.  Walsh  commenced  his  career  in  letters  as  the  author  of  a  "  History  of 
Dublin  ;  "  but  he  is  better  known  to  the  world  as  the  author  of  two  singularly  well- 
timed  works,  "Records  of  a  Residence  in  Brazil,"  and  a  "Residence  in  Constan- 
tinople." He  accompanied  his  friend.  Lord  Strangford,  as  Chaplain  to  the  Embassy 
to  both  countries.  After  a  life  of  travel  and  of  much  valuable  labour  in  many 
ways,  he  obtained  the  Rectory  of  Finglass,  near  Dublin,  where  he  died.  His 
much  elder  brother.  Dr.  Edward  Walsh,  was  one  of  the  Physicians  to  the  Forces, 
and  wrote  a  History  of  the  mournful  expedition  to  Walcheren. 

They  were  both  among  the  most  cherished  of  our  friends.  With  the  Rev.  Robert 
Walsh  our  relations  were  close  and  intimate  for  a  long  period ;  we  recall  him  to 
memory  with  respect  and  affection.  His  son,  John  Edward,  we  knew  from  his  early 
boyhood,  and  are  bound  by  ties  of  friendship  to  his  family. 

His  removal  from  earth  in  October,  1869,  at  the  comparatively  early  age  of  fifty- 
two,  was  one  of  the  mysterious  dispensations  of  Providence  we  may  not  seek  to 
fathom.  Few  better  men,  in  all  the  relations  of  life,  have  ever  lived.  A  sound 
lawyer,  an  eloquent  pleader,  a  very  learned  scholar,  and  of  large  capabilities  for 
labour,  his  rise  in  his  profession  was  a  thing  assured  long  before  he  attained  its 
most  elevated  rank.  He  was  Member  for  the  University,  Attorney-General,  and 
Master  of  the  Rolls,  all  within  a  year,  the  year  1866.     In  1869,  having  made  a 


*  One  of  Crowe's  sons  is  the  excellent  and  popular  artist,  Mr.  Eyre  Crowe,  A.E.A.    Crowe  was  bom  in  1798, 
and  died  in  1868. 


DANIEL   MACLISE,   R.A.  241 


vacation  tour  to  Italy,   he  was   attacked  with  a  sudden  illness  on  his  way  home 
through  Paris,  and  in  that  city  he  died. 

The  private  affliction  was  grievously  heavy :  not  only  his  own  family,  but  friends 
—and  he  had  many— mourned  his  departure  as  a  grief  that  had  no  remedy.  The 
removal  was  a  public  loss  of  vast  magnitude.  Though  a  Protestant  and  a  Conserva- 
tive, he  was  not  a  political  partisan.    All  parties  had  confidence  in  him in  his  sound 

judgment,  generous  sympathies,  and  unimpeachable  integrity.      It  seemed,  to  our 
finite  view,  that  he  was  taken  from  his  country  when  his  country  most  needed  him. 


DANIEL   MACLISE,    E.A. 

I  MAY  not  close  this  chapter  without  a  Memory  of  Daniel  Maclise,  estimable  as  an 
artist  and  as  a  man.  I  knew  him  when  he  was  a  lad  in  Cork,  in  the  year  1820.  I 
had  visited  the  School  of  Art  in  that  city,  and  saw  a  young  boy  standing  before  a 
desk  and  drawing  from  an  antique  model— one  of  a  series  of  casts  presented  by 
George  IV.  to  the  school.  I  conversed  with  him,  examined  his  copy,  and  observed, 
"  My  little  friend,  if  you  work  hard  and  tliinh,  you  will  be  a  great  man  one  of  these 
days."  In  the  year  1828,  when  this  child  had  become  almost  a  man,  I  encountered 
him  in  London,  with  a  portfolio  under  his  arm  ;  he  had  become  an  artist,  and  was 
drawing  portraits  for  any  who  sought  his  aid,  and  at  such  prices  as  content  young 
men  distrustful  of  their  own  powers,  and  who  have  merely  dreamed  of  fame.  I'ifty 
years  after  my  first  meeting  with  Daniel  Maclise  it  is  my  lot  to  render  homage  to  his 
genius ;  to  class  him  among  the  foremost  painters  of  his  age  ;  and  to  register  the 
fulfilment  of  my  prophecy  of  half  a  century  ago.  Such  happy  incidents  are  of  rare 
occurrence. 

He  was  born  in  Cork :  the  date  of  his  birth  has  been  given  as  the  25th  of 
January,  1811.  I  believe,  however,  it  ought  to  be  1809.  His  family  was  from 
Scotland,  and  his  father  was  Scottish  born.  He  held  an  ensigncy  in  the  Elgin 
Fencibles,*  and  went  with  his  regiment  into  Ireland  in  1798.  While  quartered  in 
Cork  he  married  into  a  family  of  the  name  of  Clear,  respectable  traders  in  that  city, 
retired  from  the  army,  and  entered  into  a  business  new  to  him.  As  might  be 
expected,  his  avocation  turned  out  unprosperously.  It  was  the  high  privilege  of 
Daniel  Maclise,  by  genius,  industry,  and  principles  honourable  to  his  heart  as  well  as 
to  his  mind,  to  restore  the  fallen  fortunes  of  his  family ;  while  the  father,  till  the  end 
of  his  life,  was  the  "honoured  guest"  of  his  artist-son. 

In  1827  or  1828  he  came  to  London,  and  entered  the  schools  of  the  Koyal 
Academy,  maintaining  himself  by  painting  portraits,  &c.  During  his  studentship  he 
gained  all  the  honours  for  which  he  competed,  including  the  gold  medal  for  a  picture 
of  "  The  Choice  of  Hercules  :  "  that  was  in  1831. 

*  It  is  so  stated,  at  least,  in  several  biographies.  I  do  not,  however,  helieve  that  the  father  was  a  commissione.,1 
officer.  In  Cork  he  followed  the  calling  of  a  shoemaker.  It  is  to  the  honour,  and  not  to  the  prejudice,  of  Maclise 
that  he  fi-eed  himself  from  the  trammels  sometimes  created  by  humble  birth.  He  was  in  aU  respects  one  of  Nature's 
gentlemen. 

B 


In  1835  he  was  elected  an  Associate  of  the  Eoyal  Academy ;  and  in  1841  he  was 
promoted  to  full  honours.  I  could  say  much — from  long  experience — of  the  genial 
nature,  the  high  mind  and  generous  heart,  of  Daniel  Maclise  ;  but  I  could  not  say  it 
half  so  well  as  it  was  said  by  his  loving  friend,  Charles  Dickens  (alas  that  I  should 
have  to  write  the  late  Charles  Dickens  !),  at  the  annual  dinner  of  the  Royal  Academy  : 
— "  Of  his  genius  in  his  chosen  art  I  will  venture  to  say  nothing  here,  but  of  his 
prodigious  fertility  of  mind  and  wonderful  wealth  of  intellect  I  may  confidently  assert 
that  they  would  have  made  him,  if  he  had  been  so  minded,  at  least  as  great  a  writer 
as  he  was  a  painter.  The  gentlest  and  most  modest  of  men,  the  freest  as  to  his 
generous  appreciation  of  young  aspirants,  and  the  frankest  and  largest-hearted  as  to 
his  peers,  incapable  of  a  sordid  or  ignoble  thought,  gallantly  sustaining  the  true 
dignity  of  his  vocation,  without  one  grain  of  self-assertion,  wholesomely  natural  at 
the  last  as  at  the  first,  'in  wit  a  man,  in  simplicity  a  child,'  no  artist  of  whatsoever 
denomination,  I  make  bold  to  say,  ever  went  to  his  rest  leaving  a  golden  memory 
more  pure  from  dross,  or  having  devoted  himself  with  a  truer  chivalry  to  the  art- 
goddess  whom  he  worshipped." 

A  more  eloquent  tribute  to  the  memory  of  any  man  was  never  uttered.  I  can 
indorse  every  word  of  it :  that  is  all  I  need  say  of  one  whom  I  honoured  and  regarded 
with  sentiments  of  deep  respect  and  earnest  affection. 


LEIGH  HUNT. 


EIGH  HUNT  was  the  son  of  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England, 

and  was  born  at  Southgate,  in  Middlesex,  19th  October,  1784.     Like 

Coleridge   and   Lamb,   he   was    educated    at  Christ's   Hospital,   and 

chiefly   under  the  same  grammar-master,  and,   like  Lamb,  he  was 

prevented    from   going  to    the    University    (which,    on  the    Christ's 

Hospital  foundation,  is  understood  to  imply  going  into  the 

Church)  by  an  impediment  in  his  speech,  which,  however, 

'^     he  had  the  better  luck  to  outgrow.     At  school,  as  afterwards, 

he  was   remarkable  for    exuberance    of   animal  spirits,  and 

for  passionate  attachment  to  his   friends,   but  did  not  evince  any  great 

regard  for    his    studies,   except  when  the  exercises  were  in  verse.     His 

prose    themes  were   so   bad  that  the  master  used  to  crumple  them  up  in 

his  hand,   and   throw  them  to  the  boys   for  their  amusement.      Animal 

spirits,  a  power  of  receiving  delight  from  the  commonest  every-day  objects, 

il         as  well  as  remote  ones,  and  a  sort  of  luxurious  natural  piety,  if  I  may  so 

speak,  are  the  prevailing  influences  of  Hunt's  writings.     His  friend  Hazlitt 

used  to  say  of  him,  in  allusion  to  his  spirits,  and  to  his  family  stock  (which  is  from 

the  West  Indies),  that  he  had  "tropical  blood  in  his  veins." 

"  He  has  been  an' ardent  politician  in  his  time,  and  has  suffered  in  almost  every 
possible   way  for  opinions  which,  whether  right  or  wrong,  he  has  lived  to  see  in  a 

E   2 


^^ 


l(( 


244 


MEMORIES. 


great  measure,  triumph.  Time  and  suffering,  without  altering  them,  we  understand, 
have  blunted  his  exertions  as  a  partisan,  by  showing  him  the  excuses  common  and 
necessary  to  all  men,  but  the  zeal  which  he  has  lost  as  a  partisan  he  no  less  evinces 
for  the  advancement  of  mankind." 

These  passages  are  contained  in  a  letter  addressed  to  me  by  Leigh  Hunt  in  1838, 
and  were  notes  for  a  biography  I  wrote  of  him  in  the  "  Book  of  Gems."  His 
ancestors,  who  originally  "  hailed "  from  Devonshire,  were,  on  the  fathers  side, 
Tories  and  Cavaliers  who  fled  from  the  tyranny  of  Cromwell,  and  settled  in  Bar- 
badoes.     His  grandmother  was  "  an  O'Brien,  and  very  proud  of  her  descent  from 


THE   BIKTHPLACB  OF   LEIGH  HUJJT. 


Irish  kings."  At  the  outbreak  of  the  American  Eevolution,  his  father,  for  the  zeal 
he  displayed  in  his  speeches  and  writings  on  the  Royalist  side,  became  obnoxious  to 
the  popular  party.  He  was  dragged  out  of  his  house,  and  after  having  narrowly 
escaped  being  tarred  and  feathered,  was  carried  to  prison,  but  was  enabled  to  escape 
by  a  heavy  bribe  to  one  of  the  sentinels  who  guarded  him,  and  getting  on  board  a 
ship  in  the  Delaware,  made  his  way  to  Barbadoes,  and  thence  to  England.  By  his 
loyalty  a  very  considerable  landed  estate  was  lost  to  his  family.  He  ultimately,  how- 
ever, became  a  Republican  and  a  "  Universalist,  a  sect  that  beheved  all  mankind,  and 
even  the  demons,  would  be  eventually  saved."  After  some  time  practising  as  a 
lawyer  in  Philadelphia,  he  "  emigrated  "  to  England,  and  entered  the  Church,  having 


LEIGH  HUNT.  2^5 


wedded  a  lady  of  Pennsylvania  against  the  consent  of  her  father,  "  a  stern  merchant." 
"She  had  Quaker  breeding,"  and  although  of  a  proverbially  "fierce  race" — the 
Shewells — she  was  meek,  kindly,  and  Christian ;  and  from  her,  no  doubt,  the  poet 
derived  much  of  the  gentle  urbanity  and  generous  sympathy  that  were  essential 
features  in  his  character.  To  her,  also,  he  traces  a  "  constitutional  timidity  "  that 
"  often  perplexed  him  through  life  ;  "  it  is  not  so  much  seen  in  his  books  as  it  was  in 
his  conversation  and  conduct.  This  characteristic  was  noticed  by  many,  who  won- 
dered that  so  "mild"  a  person  should  have  embarked  on  the  stormy  sea  of  politics, 
and  have  become  a  fierce  partisan  of  the  pen. 

His  father,  not  long  after  he  made  his  home  in  England,  took  orders,  and  became 
tutor  to  the  nephew  of  the  Duke  of  Chandos,  whose  name  was  Leigh,  after  whom  he 
called  his  latest-born,'''  who  was  nine  years  younger  than  the  youngest  of  his 
brothers,  of  whom  there  were  several.  His  father  had  the  spiritual  cure  of  South- 
gate  ;  and  there,  Leigh  Hunt  writes,  "  I  first  saw  the  light."  Southgate  was  then 
"  lying  out  of  the  way  of  innovation,"  with  a  pure  sweet  air  of  antiquity  about  it,  on 
the  border  of  Enfield  Chase,  and   in   the   parish  of  Edmonton.     The  house  is  yet 

-^  C^^TU.  ^iJK^/Ti  -ivcff^  a  j^ytjz^  MC^^f^yi^f  w^^^ 

standing,  and  I  have  engraved  it.  The  neighbourhood  retains  much  of  its  peculiar 
character ;  it  has  still  "  an  air  of  antiquity  :  "  of  old  houses  and  ancient  trees  many 
yet  remain  ;  the  forest  is,  indeed  gone,  but  modern  "  improvements  "  have  but  httle 
spoiled  the  locality. 

Li  1792  he  entered  Christ's  Hospital.  For  eight  years  he  toiled  there,  bare- 
headed all  that  time,  save  now  and  then  when  "  he  covered  a  few  inches  of  pericranium 
with  a  cap  no  bigger  than  a  crumpet."  Here,  however,  he  obtained  a  scholarship, 
under  the  iron  rule  of  the  hard  taskmaster  of  whom  something  has  been  said  in  the 
Memory  of  Coleridge.  No  doubt  much  of  the  after-tone  of  his  mind  was  derived 
from  his  long  residence  in  the  heart  of  a  great  city,  and  to  it  may  be  traced  not  only 
his  love  of  streets,  but  his  love  of  flowers — his  luxuries  at  every  period  of  his  life. 
He  was  grateful  to  the  Hospital  for  having  "bred  hini  up  in  old  cloisters,"  for  the 
friendships  he  formed  there,  and  for  the  "  introductions  it  gave  him  to  Homer  and 
to  Ovid."  In  1802  his  father  published  a  volume  of  his  verses  under  the  title  of 
"Juvenilia,"  of  which  the  poet  in  his  maturity  grew  ashamed.     For  some  time  he 

*  His  names  were  James  Henry  Leigh  Hunt ;  so  they  stand  in  the  baptismal  registry,  although  he  is  known 
only  as  Leigh  Hunt. 


246  MEMORIES. 


was  "  in  the  law-office  of  his  brother  Stephen."  Gradually  he  drew  in,  and  gave  out, 
knowledge.  He  next  obtained  a  clerkship  in  the  War  Office,  which  he  relinquished 
when  he  became  a  political  writer, — first  in  a  weekly  paper  called  The  News,  and 
afterwards  in  the  Exanviner.  He  was,  by  profession,  a  Man  of  Letters,  working 
with  his  pen  for  his  daily  bread,  and  "becoming,  all  at  once,  a  critic  of  authors, 
actors,  and  artists." 

In  1808,  the  two  brothers,  John  and  Leigh,  "  set  up  "  the  Examiner,  the  main 
objects  of  which  were  (as  Leigh  states  in  his  Autobiography)  to  assist  in  producing 
Reform  in  ParUament,  liberality  of  opinion  in  general  (especially  freedom  from  super- 
stition), and  a  fusion  of  literary  taste  into  all  subjects  whatsoever." 

They  soon  made  it  popular,  but  had  to  pay  a  penalty  for  the  freedom  of  speech 
that  was  then,  even  in  its  mildest  tones,  a  crime  in  England.  They  were  tried  and 
sentenced  to  two  years'  imprisonment,  and  a  fine  of  £1,000,*  for  a  libel  on  the  Prince 
of  Wales,  and  they  remained  in  different  prisons  until  the  3rd  of  February,  1815, 
John  at  Coldbath  Fields,  and  Leigh  in  Surrey  Gaol,  where,  however,  he  was  allowed 
to  have  his  wife  (he  had  married  in  1809)  and  his  children  with  him,  and  in  various 
other  ways  his  incarceration  was  made  comparatively  light ;  for  here  he  had  many 
admiring  and  sympathising  visitors,  among  them  Byron,  Moore, f  Maria  Edgeworth, 
Haydon,  and  Wilkie. 

It  has  been  too  generally  thought  that  in  the  case  of  this  libel  the  punishment 
greatly  exceeded  the  offence.  Making  due  allowance  for  the  difference  between 
"now  and  then,"  it  would  cot  seem  so;  for  perhaps  no  libel  more  bitter  was  ever 
printed.  If  the  Prince  had  been  a  grazier,  he  would  have  obtained  the  protection  he 
claimed  from  a  jury  of  his  countrymen ;  and  if  the  author  had  written  of  the  grazier 
in  terms  such  as  he  wrote  of  the  Prince,  he  must  have  accepted  the  issue.  Here  is 
the  marrow  of  it :  there  can  be  no  harm  in  reprinting,  to  condemn  it,  half  a  centuiy 
and  more  since  it  was  written.  Hunt  was  commenting  upon  an  article  of  gross 
adulation  of  the  Prince  in  the  Morning  Post:—"  Who  would  have  imagined  that  this 
'  Adonis    in    loveliness '   was   a    corpulent   gentleman    of  fifty ;    in  short,    that    this 

*  Some  influential  friends  offered  to  raise  a  subscription  to  pay  the  fine ;  but  that  was  declined  by  the  bro'hers. 
To  this  and  the  heavy  expenses  incurred  in  subsequent  Government  prosecutions  (some  of  which  filled,  however,  in 
obtaining  verdicts  against  them)  may  be  attributed  the  pecuniary  ditficulties  which  John  and  Leigh  Hunt  laboured 
under  during  the  whole  of  their  lives. 

+  In  Moore's  ' '  TwopcLny  Post-bag,"  in  the  midst  of  political  triflings,  we  come  upon  these  earnest  lines  on  the 
separation  and  imprisonment  of  the  two  brothers  : — 

"  Go  to  your  prisons— though  the  air  of  spring 
No  mountain  coolness  to  your  cheeks  sliall  tiring ; 
Though  summer  flowers  shall  pass  unseen  away, 
And  all  youi-  portion  of  the  glorious  day 
May  be  some  solitary  beam  that  falls. 
At  morn  or  eve,  upon  j'our  dreary  walls  — 
Some  beam  that  en^  ers,  trembling  as  if  awed. 
To  tell  how  gay  the  young  world  laughs  abroad  1 
Yet  go — for  thoughts,  as  blessed  as  the  air 
Of  spring  or  summer  flowers,  await  you  there  ; 
Thoughts  such  as  he,  who  feasts  his  courtly  crew 
In  rich  conservatories,  never  knew! 
Pure  self-esteem — Ihe  smiles  that  light  within — 
The  zeal  whose  circling  ch:iri*ies  begin 
With  the  few  loved  ones  Heaven  has  placed  it  near, 
Nor  cease  till  all  mankind  ai'e  in  its  sphere  ! — 
The  pride  that  suffers  without  vaunt  or  plea, 
And  the  fiesh  spirit  that  can  warble  free, 
Thi'ough  prison  bars,  its  hymn  of  liberty !  " 


LEIGH  HUNT.  24} 


delightful,  blissful,  wise,  pleasurable,  honourable,  virtuous,  true,  and  immortal 
prince  was  a  violator  of  his  word,  a  libertine  over  head  and  ears  in  debt  and  disgrace, 
a  despiser  of  domestic  ties,  the  companion  of  gamblers  and  demireps,  a  man  who  has 
just  closed  half  a  century  without  one  single  claim  on  the  gratitude  of  his  country,  or 
the  respect  of  posterity  ?  "  * 

The  visit  of  Leigh  Hunt  to  Lord  Byron^  and  its  result  in  the  publication  of  The 
Liberal:  Verse  and  Prose  from  the  South,  forms  parts  of  the  literary  history  of  the 
epoch.  In  May,  1822,  at  Byron's  request.  Hunt  left  England  for  Leghorn,  where, 
in  July,  he  found  his  attached  friend  Shelley,!  a  very  few  days  before  the  terrible 
death  of  that  greatly-gifted  man  of  genius.  The  sad  event  changed  the  after-destiny 
of  Leigh  Hunt.  Byron  seems  to  have  liked  him  but  little  ;  their  elements  could  no 
more  have  mingled  than  fire  and  oil.  Their  intercourse  did  not  last  long.  One  of 
the  consequences  much  impaired  the  reputation  of  Leigh  Hunt.  The  volume 
"  Byron  and  his  Contemporaries  "  was  a  serious  error.  Leigh  Hunt  could  no  more 
comprehend  Byron  than  Byron  could  understand  and  appreciate  Leigh  Hunt.  I 

On  his  return  from  the  "sunny  South,"  Hunt  went  to  live  at  Highgate.  The 
sylvan  scenery  of  the  London  suburb  refreshed  him ;  he  luxuriated  in  the  natural 
wealth  of  the  open  heath,  the  adjacent  meadows,  and  the  neighbouring  woods.  The 
walk  across  the  fields  -from  Highgate  to  Hampstead,  with  ponds  on  one  side  and 
Caen  Wood  on  the  other,  used  to  be  "  one  of  the  prettiest  in  England;"  and  he  says 
of  the  fairest  scenes  in  Italy,  "I  would  quit  them  all  for  a  walk  over  the  fields  from 
Hampstead."  He  had,  indeed,  long  loved  the  locality.  Before  he  left  England  he 
had  dwelt  in  a  pretty  cottage  at  Hampstead;  it  is  still  standing,  and  but  little 
altered.  The  accompanying  engraving  will  show  that  it  remains — fit  dwelling  for  a 
poet.  Shelley  went  often  to  visit  Leigh  Hunt  there,  delighting  in  the  natural  broken 
ground,  and  in  the  fresh  air  of  the  place,  which  "  used  to  give  him  an  intoxication  of 
animal  spirits."  Here  he  swam  his  paper-boats  in  the  pond,  and  played  with 
children  ;  and  to  that  house  Shelley  brought  at  midnight  a  poor  woman,  a  forlorn 
"  sister,"  whom  he  had  found  in  a  fit  on  the  heath,  and  whom  he  thus  saved  from 
death. 

Leigh  Hunt,  when  I  knew  most  of  him,  was  living  at  Edwardes  Square,  Ken- 
sington, in  a  small  house,  on  restricted  means.     All  his  life  long  his  income  was 


*  It  was  contained  in  the  Examiner,  No.  221,  published  on  Sunday,  22nd  March,  1812.  In  one  of  his  letters  to 
Mrs.  Hall,  Leigh  Hunt  writes  :-"  The  libel  would  not  have  been  so  savage  had  I  not  been  warmed  into  it  by  my 
indignation  at  1he  Regent's  breaking  his  promises  to  the  Irish."  "  It  origmated  m  my  sympathies  with  the  suffer- 
ings of  the  people  of  Ireland."  Whin  Leigh  Hunt  met  O'Connell  some  years  afterwards,  the  latter  told  him  how 
much  the  article  delighted  him,  but  that  hi  had  felt  certain  as  to  the  penalties  it  would  draw  down  upon  its  author 

+  I  find  this  description  of  Shelley  in  one  of  the  letters  written  to  me  by  Leigh  Hunt  :■-  Shelley  was  taU  and 
slight  of  figure,  with  a  singular  union  of  general  deUoacy  of  organisation  and  muscular  strength.  His  iMir  was 
brown,  prematurely  touched  with  gi-ey ;  his  complexion  fair  and  glowing  ;  his  eyes  grey  and  extiemely  vmd  his 
face  small  and  deUcately  featm-ed,  especially  about  the  lower  part ;  and  he  had  an  expression  of  coimtenance  when 
he  was  talking  in  his  usual  earnest  fashion,  giving  you  the  idea  of  something  seraphioal.  Hazlitt  said  he 
looked  like  a  spirit."  In  the  same  letter  occm-s  this  sketch  of  his  friend  Keats  :-"  Keats  was  undei  the  nnddle 
si^e,  and  somewhat  large  above,  in  proportion  to  his  lower  limbs,  which,  however  T^^re  neatly  formed  and  he  had 
anything  in  his  dress  and  general  demeanour  but  that  appearance  of  levity  which  has  be€^a  stiangely  atti  buted  to 
him  in  a  late  publication.  In  fact,  he  had  so  much  of  the  reverse,  thoiigh  m  ^%™^„e^^°™/ff7,f:  oonsc  oZes. 
be  supposed  to  maintain  a  certain  jealous  care  of  the  appearance  and  beanng  of  a  gentleman,  m  the  consciousn^^^^^ 
of  his  genius,  and  perhaps  not  without  some  sense  of  his  origin.  His  face  was  handsome  and  sensitive  with  a  look 
in  the  lyes  at  once  earnest  and  tender  ;  and  his  hair-  grew  in  delicate  b™^  "o^)'^^^  °^,'^?i''i;n,  ' -^!.^^^^^  t^^:,, 

t  Southey,  wi'iting  in  November,  1822,  says  ;-"  He  (Byron)  and  Leigh  Hunt,  no  doubt,  ^lU  qi.anel,  and  then 
separation  break  up  the  concern  " — i.e.  the  Liheial. 


248 


MEMORIES. 


limited  ;  it  is,  indeed,  notorious  that  he  was  put  to  many  "  shifts  "  to  keep  the  wolf 
from  the  door.  "  His  whole  life,"  says  his  son,  "  was  one  of  pecuniary  difficulty." 
No  doubt  he  had  that  lack  of  prudence  which  is  so  often  one  of  the  heavy  drawbacks 
of  genius — one  of  the  penalties  that  nature  exacts  as  a  set-off  against  the  largest  and 
holiest  of  her  gifts.  It  may  not,  and  perhaps  ought  not,  to  be  admitted  as  an  excuse 
in  bar  of  judgment;  the  world  is  not  bound  to  make  allowances  for  those  struggles  - 
of  the  mind,  heart,  and  soul  with  poverty,  which  not  unfrequently  seem  to  have 
discreditable  issues,  and  usually  bear  Dead-Sea  fruit.     There  have  been  many  men 


LEIGH  hunt's    cottage   AT   HAMPSTEAD. 


of  genius  who  would  suffer  the  extreme  of  penury  rather  than  borrow — such,  for 
example,  as  I  have  elsewhere  shown,  was  Thomas  Moore,  to  whom  the  purses  of 
wealthy  and  high-born  friends  were  as  sacred  as  the  Crown-jewels ;  but  men  of 
letters  arc  for  the  most  part  less  scrupulous.  To  some  it  seems  venial,  to  others 
little  else  than  a  practical  illustration  of  the  text,  "  It  is  more  blessed  to  give  than  to 
receive,"  and  a  belief  that  God  makes  almoners  of  those  He  enriches  with  over- 
abundance. Such  ideas,  however,  are  opposed  to  the  views  of  society.  Undoubtedly 
they  lower  the  intellectual  standard,  and  debase  the  mind.  Self-respect  can  rarely 
exist  without  independence  ;  yet,  to  quote  the  words  of  a  kindred  spirit — unhappy 


LEIGH  HUNT.  249 

Will  Kennedy — "  if  pecuniary  embarrassments  be  a  crime,  then  are  the  records  of 
genius  a  Newgate  Calendar."* 

I  do  not  mean  the  reader  to  infer  that  either  privately  or  publicly  there  is  aught 
dishonourable  to  lay  to  the  charge  of  Leigh  Hunt.  "Who  art  thou  that  judgest 
another?"  But  it  is  certain  that  his  applications  to  friends  for  pecuniary  aid  were 
frequent,  and  may  have  been  wearisome.  Of  such  friends  he  had  many.  Among 
the  most  generous  of  them  was  that  good  man,  Horace  Smith. f 

Surely  the  lines  of  Cowley  apply  with  emphatic  force  to  Hunt : — 

"  Business— the  frivolous  pretence 
Of  human  lusts  to  oast  oil  innocence ! 
Business — the  thing  that  I  of  all  things  hate  ! 
Business— the  contradiction  of  my  fate  1  " 

The  truth  is  that,  like  many  men  of  his  order,  he  never  knew  the  value  of  money. 
He  was  very  generous,  and  certainly  thoughtless,  in  giving.  No  reckless  extra- 
vagance is  laid  to  his  charge ;  his  habits  were  the  very  opposite  to  those  of  a  spend- 
thrift;  he  was  utterly  indifferent  to  what  are  called  "  the  luxuries  of  life."  Simple 
in  his  "ways,"  temperate  almost  to  the  extreme,  his  "feasts"  were  with  the  poets, 
his  predecessors,  and  the  table  was  always  well  furnished  that  was  covered  with 
books.  I 

I  have  treated  this  subject  with  some  hesitation,  and  perhaps  should  have 
abstained  from  it  altogether,  but  that  I  find  the  son  of  the  poet  writing  thus  : — "  The 
plan  of  working,  the  varied  and  precarious  nature  of  the  employments,  an  inborn 
dulness  of  sense  as  to  the  lapse  of  time,  conspired  to  produce  a  life  in  which  the 
receipt  of  handsome  earnings  alternated  with  long  periods  that  yielded  no  income  at 
all.  In  these  intervals  credit  went  a  long  way,  but  not  far  enough.  There  were 
gaps  of  total  destitution  in  which  every  available  source  had  been  absolutely 
exhausted."  "At  this  juncture,"  he  continues,  "appeals  were  made  for  assistance, 
sometimes  with  and  sometimes  without  the  knowledge  of  Leigh  Hunt,  and  they  were 
largely  successful. § 

*  I  knew  intimately,  between  the  years  1826  and  1830,  the  author  I  have  quoted — WOliam  Kennedy.  He  was 
undoubtedly  a  man  of  genius,  but  wayward  and  reckless.  I  lost  sight  of  him  many  years  before  his  death— his 
intellectual  death,  that  is  to  say  ;  for  his  latter  years  were  passed  in  a  lunatic  asylum,  where  he  died.  My  intro- 
duction to  him  was  singular.  I  reviewed  in  the  EcUctic  Eeview — so  far  back  as  1825— a  smaU  book  he  had  published, 
either  in  Glasgow  or  Paisley,  and  received  from  him  a  letter  of  acknowledgment.  It  led  to  my  inviting  him  to 
London  as  my  guest,  and  by  my  influence  he  obtained  a  situation  as  reporter  on  the  Morning  Jourmd,  a  newspaper 
with  which  I  was  myself  connected,  and  of  which  I  was  subsequently,  for  a  time,  the  editoi'.  Kennedy  was  an 
Irishman,  a  native  of  Belfast.  His  youth  had  been  "wandering."  Previous  to  his  visiting  London  he  was,  I 
understood,  a  strolling  player  in  Scotland,  where  he  had  probably  acquired  habits  that  led  to  the  early  close  of  a 
life  which  might  have  been  most  honourable  and  prosperous,  for  his  abilities  had  attracted  attention,  and  he 
obtained  the  appointment  of  Consul  (I  think)  at  Venezuela. 

t  In  one  of  Shelley's  letters  to  Leigh  Hunt,  in  allusion  to  a  sum  of  money  Shelley  desired  to  send  to  Hunt  to 
defray  his  journey  to  Italy,  he  says  : — "I  suppose  that  I  shall  at  last  make  up  an  impudent  face,  and  ask  Horace 
Smith  to  add  to  the  many  obligations  he  has  conferred  on  me.    I  know  I  U'  ed  only  ask." 

+  His  friend  Mr.  Beynell  tells  me  (and  he  is  a  safe  and  sure  au.thority)  that  in  his  later  days  Mr.  Hunt  often 
said  to  him  his  great  wish  was  that  when  he  died  he  should  not  owe  to  any  one  a  halfpenny.  He  had  borrowed  from 
the  good  Duke  of  Devonshire  a  sum  of  £200,  and  returned  it  to  him,  the  duke  remai-king  that  it  was  the  only  instance, 
save  one,  in  which  money  thus  lent  had  been  proffered  back  :  he  declined  to  accept  it.  Hunt  was  indebted  to  Mr. 
EeyneU— a  debt  incuried  by  Mr.  fleyneU  becoming  surety  for  him  in  1832,  when  the  fortunes  of  the  poet  were  at 
their  lowest  ebb.  Twenty  years  aftei  wards  he  repaid  that  sum — on  receiving  the  first  instalment  of  Shelley's  legacy 
— as  he  had  promised  he  would  do.    No  doubt  other  similar  cases  might  be  recorded. 

5  In  a  letter  he  addressed  to  me  when,  in  1835,  I  was  writing  a  brief  memoir  of  him  for  the  "  Book  of  Gems," 
he  says,  ''  You  will  not  hesitate  to  add  what  objections  you  are  compelled  by  impartiality  to  entertain  against  me  ; " 
and  in  a  subsequent  letter  he  writes,  "  Had  you  said  that  fiv  -six  hs  of  my  writings  were  worth  nothing,  1  should 
have  agreed  with  you,  for  I  think  so,  and  I  would  use  stronger  terms,  if  there  ni'ght  not  be  vanity  itself  in  so  doing. 
My  only  excuse  is  (and  it  is,  luckUy,  a  good  one,  so  far)  that  I  have  been  forced  to  write  for  bread,  and  so  put  forth 
a  good  deal  of  unwiUing  nothingness." 


In  1844,  Sir  Percy  Shelley,  the  son  of  the  poet,  succeeded  to  the  title  and  estates 
of  his  grandfather,  and  one  of  his  earliest  acts  (under  the  suggestion  of  his  mother,  Mary 
Wolstoncroft  Shelley)  was  to  settle  on  Leigh  Hunt  and  on  his  wife,  in  the  event  of 
her  surviving  him,  an  annuity  of  £120 ;  and  in  1847  he  was  placed  on  the  Pension- 
list,  and  received,  "  in  consideration  of  his  distinguished  literary  talents,"  a  pension 
of  £200  a  year.  Lord  John  Eussell,  in  conveying  this  boon  to  him,  adds,  "  The 
severe  treatment  you  received,  in  times  of  unjust  persecution  of  liberal  writers, 
enhances  the  satisfaction  with  which  I  make  this  announcement."  Thus  in  his  old 
age  the  comforter  came  to  his  home,  and  the  "pecuniary  difficulties"  that  had 
haunted  his  whole  life  were  no  longer  felt, — should  not  have  been  so,  perhaps  I 
ought  to  say,  for  I  believe  pecuniary  difficulties  were  never  "  entirely  removed  " 
from  him  Until  he  was  in  his  shroud. 

That  there  were  fine  points  in  the  character  of  Leigh  Hunt  all  who  knew  him 
admitted  :  foremost  among  them  was  his  love  of  Truth.  In  one  of  his  letters  to  me 
he  writes : — "I  would  rather  be  considered  a  hearty  loving  nature  than  anything 
else  in  the  world,  and  if  I  love  truth,  as  I  do,  it  is  because  I  love  an  apple  to  be 
thought  an  apple,  and  a  hand  a  hand,  and  the  whole  beauty  and  hopefulness  of 
God's  creation  a  truth  instead  of  a  lie."  He  was  justified  in  saying  of  himself  that 
he  had  "two  good  qualities  to  set  off  against  many  defects" — that  he  was  "not 
vindictive  and  spoke  the  truth,"  although  it  may  have  been  with  him,  as  he  said  it 
was  with  his  friend  Hazlitt,  "however  genuine  was  his  love  of  truth,  his  passions 
may  have  sometimes  led  him  to  mistake  it." 

Charles  Lamb,  who  dearly  loved  him,  describes  his  "mild  dogmatism"  and  his 
"  boyish  sportiveness  ;  "  and  Hazlitt  writes  of  him  thus  : — "  In  conversation  he  is  all 
life  and  animation,  combining  the  vivacity  of  the  schoolboy  with  the  resources  of  the 
wit  and  the  taste  of  the  scholar."  Of  him  Haydon  the  painter  said  this  : — "  You 
would  have  been  burnt  at  the  stake  for  a  principle,  and  you  would  have  feared  to  put 
your  foot  in  the  mud."  Even  Byron,  who  "  hated  him  without  a  cause,"  and  whose 
hatred  seemed  the  birth  of  self-reproach,  proclaimed  him  to  be  "  a  good  man." 

But  to  my  thinking,  the  best  testimony  to  the  character  of  Leigh  Hunt  is  that  which 
was  borne  to  it  by  Lord  Lytton,  an  author  who  has  perhaps  had  more  power  to  cir- 
culate bitter  things,  and  shoot  poisoned  arrows  at  his  brethren  of  the  pen,  than  most 
men,  yet  who,  I  beheve,  has  said  of  them  more  generous  and  "helping"  things  and 
fewer  bitter  things  than  any  man  living.  This  character  occurs  in  a  review  of  Leigh 
Htmt's  poetry  in  the  New  Monthly  Magazine,  1833.  It  is  anonymous,  but  I  can  do 
no  wrong  in  stating  that  Lord  Lytton  was  the  writer  : — "  None  have  excelled  him  in 
the  kindly  sympathies  with- which,  in  writing  of  others,  he  has  softened  down  the 
asperities  and  resisted  the  caprices  common  to  the  exercise  of  power.  In  him  the 
young  poet  has  ever  found  a  generous  encourager,  no  less  than  a  faithful  guide. 
None  of  the  jealousy  or  the  rancour  ascribed  to  literary  men,  and  almost  natural  to 
such  literary  men  as  the  world  has  wronged,  has  gained  access  to  his  true  heart,  or 
embittered  his  generous  sympathies.  Strugghng  against  no  light  misfortunes  and  no 
common  foes,  he  has  not  helped  to  retaliate  upon  rising  authors  the  difficulty  and 
the   appreciation  Avhich   had  burdened   his   own   career.      He  has    kept  undimmed 


LEIGH  HUNT. 


and  unbroken,  through  all  reverses,  that  first  requisite  of  a  good  critic — a  good 
heart." 

I  knew  but  little  of  Leigh  Hunt  when  he  was  in  his  prime.  I  had  met  him, 
however,  more  than  once,  soon  after  his  return  from  Italy,  when  he  recommenced  a 
career  of  letters  which  he  had  been  induced  to  abandon,  trusting  to  visionary  hopes 
in  the  aid  he  was  to  derive  from  familiar  intercourse  with  Byron.  He  was  tall,  but 
slightly  formed,  quiet  and  contemplative  in  gait  and  manner,  yet  apparently  affected 
by  momentary  impulse ;  his  countenance  brisk  and  animated,  receiving  its  expression 
chiefly  from  dark  and  brilliant  eyes,  but  supplying  unequivocal  evidence  of  that  mixed 
blood  which  he  derived  from  the  parent  stock,  to  which  his  friend  Hazlitt  alluded  in 
reference  to  his  flow  of  animal  spirits  as  well  as  to  his  descent,  "he  had  tropical  blood 
in  his  veins."  His  son  Thornton  (Cor)ihill  Magazine)  describes  him  "as  in  height 
about  five  feet  ten  inches,  remarkably  straight  and  upright  in  his  carriage,  with  a  firm 
step  and  a  cheerful,  almost  dashing,  approach."  He  had  straight  black  hair,  which 
he  wore  parted  in  the  centre;  a  dark,  but  not  pale  complexion;  black  eyebrows, 
firmly  marking  the  edge  of  a  brow  over  which  was  a  singularly  upright,  flat,  white 
forehead,  and  under  which  beamed  a  pair  of  eyes,  dark,  brilliant,  reflecting,  gay,  and 
kind,  with  a  certain  look  of  observant  humour.  "  He  had  a  head  larger  than  most 
men's  ;  Byron,  Shelley,  and  Keats  wore  hats  which  he  could  not  put  on." 

In  1838  I  saw  him  often,  and  saw  enough  of  him  to  have  earnest  esteem  and 
sincere  regard  for  the  man  whom  I  had  long  admired  as  the  poet.  He  gave  me  many 
valuable  hints  for  my  guidance  while  I  was  compiling  "  The  Book  of  Gems  of  British 
Poets  and  British  Artists,"  All  his  "notes"  concerning  his  contemporaries  (I  have 
some  of  them  still)  were  genial,  cordial,  and  laudatory,  affording  no  evidence  of  envy, 
no  taint  of  depreciation.  His  mind  was,  indeed,  like  his  poetry,  a  sort  of  buoyant 
outbreak  of  joyousness,  and  when  a  tone  of  sadness  pervades  it,  it  is  so  gentle, 
confiding,  and  hoping  as  to  be  far  more  nearly  allied  to  resignation  than  to  repining, 
although  his  life  was  subjected  to  many  heavy  trials  ;  and  especially  had  he  to  com- 
plain of  the  ingratitude  of  political  "friends" — for  whom  he  had  fought  heartily — 
when  victory  was  only  for  the  strong,  and  triumph  for  the  swift.  Perhaps  there  is 
no  poet  who  so  entirely  pictures  himself  in  all  he  writes  ;  yet  it  is  a  pure  and  natural 
egotism,  and  contrasts  happily  with  the  gloomy  and  misanthropic  moods  which  some 
have  laboured  first  to  acquire  and  then  to  portray.  "  Quick  in  perception,  generous 
of  impulse,  he  saw  little  evil  destitute  of  good." 

In  conversation  Leigh  Hunt  was  always  more  than  pleasing;  he  was  "ever  a 
special  lover  of  books,"  as  well  as  a  devout  worshipper  of  Nature;  and  his  "  talk" 
mingled,  often  very  sweetly,  the  simplicity  of  a  child  with  the  acquirements  of  a  man 
of  the  world — somewhat  as  we  find  them  mingled  in  his  "  Jar  of  Honey  from  Mount 
Hybla."  It  did,  indeed,  according  to  the  laudatory  view  of  one  of  his  poetic  school, 
often  "  combine  the  vivacity  of  the  schoolboy  with  the  resources  of  the  wit  and  the 
taste  of  the  scholar." 

This  generosity  of  thought  and  heart  is  conspicuous  in  all  his  writings.  His 
Autobiography  is  full  of  liberal  and  generous  sentiments— rarely  any  other— evidence 
of  the  charity  that  "  suff'ereth  long  and  is  kind,  vaunteth  not  itself,  is  not  easily  puffed 


MEMORIES. 


up,  thinketh  no  evil."  He  who  might  have  said  so  many  bitter  things,  utters  scarcely 
one  ;  he  who  might  have  galled  his  enemies  to  the  quick,  does  not  stab  even  in 
thought. 

He  wrote  much  prose  and  many  poems,  and  although  marred,  perhaps,  by 
frequent  affectations,  his  poetry  is  of  the  true  metal;  tender,  graceful,  and  affectionate, 
loving  nature  in  all  its  exterior  graces,  but  more  especially  in  man.  It  is,  and  ever 
will  be,  popular  among  those  whose  warmer  and  dearer  sympathies  are  with  humanity. 
Charles  Lamb,  in  his  memorable  defence  of  Hunt  against  an  alleged  insinuation  of 
Southey,  that  Hunt  had  no  religion,  thus  writes  of  him  : — "  He  is  one  of  the  most 
cordial-minded  men  I  ever  knew— a  matchless  fireside  companion."  Southey  regretted, 
and  justly,  that  Leigh  Hunt  had  "  no  religion."  He  had,  indeed,  a  kind  of  scholastic 
theology,  that  he  considered  might  stand  in  the  stead  of  it ;  he  himself  calls  it,  in  a 
letter  to  me,  "  a  sort  of  natural  piety,"  but  in  none  of  his  letters — nor  in  his  Diary 
— is  there  the  slightest  allusion  to  its  consolations,  no  evidence  of  trust  in  a  super- 
intending Providence,  and  but  little  intimation  of  belief  or  hope  in  the  Hereafter. 
Who  will  not  lament  this  as  he  reads  his  writings,  knowing  how  closely  combined  is 
love  of  man  with  love  of  God ;  how  much  stronger  for  the  general  good  is  Virtue 
when  it  is  based  on  Christianity  ?  His  religion  (which  he  styles,  in  the  letter  to  me 
I  have  quoted,  "a  sort  of  luxurious  natural  piety")  was  cheerful,  hopeful,  sympa- 
thising, universal  in  its  benevolence,  and  entirely  comprehensive  in  charity,  but  it 
was  not  the  religion  of  the  Christian  ;  it  was  not  even  that  of  the  Unitarian.  He 
recognised  Christ,  indeed,  but  classes  Him  only  among  those — not  even  foremost  of 
them — who  were  lights  in  dark  ages  ;  "  great  lights,"  as  he  styles  them,  "  of  rational 
piety  and  benignant  intercourse  " — Confucius,  Socrates,  Epictetus,  Antoninus.  Jesus 
was  their  "martyred  brother,"  nothing  more.  His  published  book  entitled  "The 
Keligion  of  the  Heart "  (1853)  is  but  little  known  ;  I  hope  it  will  never  be  reprinted. 
Had  Southey  read  it,  he  would  not  have  been  content  with  the  mild  rebuke  to  Leigh 
Hunt  which  excited  the  ire  of  one  of  the  gentlest  and  most  loving  of  the  friends  of 
both,  Charles  Lamb,  who,  in  his  memorable  letter  to  the  Laureate — a  letter  indig- 
nant, irrational,  and  unjust — bitterly  condemned  the  one  for  a  very  mild  castigation 
of  the  other.*'  His  theory  of  religion  may,  perhaps,  be  indicated  by  the  following 
Lines,  which  were  certainly  among  his  own  favourites.  I  copy  them  from  Mrs, 
Hall's  Album,  in  which  he  wrote  them  : — 

"  Aboi]  Ben  Adliem  (may  liis  tribe  increase  !) 
Awoke  one  nig'ht  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace, 
And  saw,  within  the  moonlight  in  his  room, 
Making  it  rich,  and  like  a  lily  in  bloom, 
An  angel,  writing  in  a  book  of  gold. 
Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold, 


*  I  by  no.  means,  however,  mean  to  convey  an  idea  that  Leigh  Hunt  was  "  ii'religious  "  in  the  ordinaiy  sense 
of  the  term.  I  am  quite  sure  he  was  not  so.  The  New  Testament  was  a  book  of  his  continual  study,  but  it  was 
read  in  a  spirit  that  brought  none  of  the  light  it  has,  happily,  brought  to  other  men.  If  he  was  a  "  free-''  hinker," 
he  lendered  profound  respect  to  the  Divine  Author  of  the  Christian  faith,  and  therefore  never  sneered  at  Ihose  who 
accept  it  as  a  means  of  Salva+ion,  and  never  wrote  with  any  view  to  sap  or  to  weaken  Belief.  If  we  may  not  class 
him  among  the  ad\  ocates  of  Christianity,  it  would  be  injustice  to  place  him  among  its  opponents.  Some  one  who 
wrote  a  touching  and  very  eloquent  tribute  to  his  memory  in  the  Examiner  soon  after  his  death,  says,  "  He  had 
a  childlike  sympathy  of  his  own  in  the  Father  to  whom  he  is  gone,  of  which  those  who  diverged  fi-om  his  path  can 
only  say  that,  ignorant  of  the  direct  line  to  the  eternal  sea,  he  took  the  sure  and  pleasant  pathi  beside  the  river." 


LEIGH  HUNT.  253 


And  to  the  presence  in  the  room  he  said, 
'  "What  -wTitest  thou  ? '     The  vision  raised  its  head, 
And  with  a  look,  made  of  all  sweet  aocord, 
Answer'd,  '  The  names  of  those  who  love  the  Lord.' 
'And  is  mine  one  ? '  snid  Aboii.     '  Nay,  not  so,' 
Replied  the  ang-el.     Abou  spoke  more  low, 
But  cheerily  still,  and  said,  '  I  pray  thee,  then. 
Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow-men.' 

"  The  angel  wrote  and  vanish'd.    The  next  night 
It  came  again  with  a  gi-eat,  wakening  light. 
And  show'd  the  names  whom  love  of  Grod  had  bless' d. 
And  lo  !  Ben  Adhem's  name  led  all  the  rest." 

Leigh  Hunt  lived  to  see  political  asperities  softened  down,  the  distinctions 
between  Whig  and  Tory  gradually  diminished,  and  party  bitterness  become  almost 
extinguished.  He  lived,  indeed,  "  through  a  storm  of  obloquy,  to  be  esteemed  and 
loved  by  men  who  had  been  his  most  vigorous  antagonists."  *  No  doubt,  as  a  poli- 
tician, he  "  flourished  "  some  years  too  soon ;  he  was  a  reformer  much  too  early. 
Both  of  his  successors  as  editors  of  the  Examiner,  Albany  Fonblanque  and  John 
Forster,  were  rewarded  in  the  way  that  Liberal  governments — more  wise  in  their 
generation  than  Tory  governments — reward  their  partisans  of  the  Press,  But  Leigh 
Hunt  "guided  the  pen"  at  a  period  when  little  was  to  be  gained  by  it  except 
annoyance  and  persecution — at  least  in  advocating  "  the  old  cause,"  "  Hazlitt  used 
to  say,  that  after  Leigh  Hunt  and  himself  and  their  like  had  done  the  rough  work  of 
the  battle  for  Liberal  opinions,  the  gentlemen  of  the  Whig  party  '  put  on  their  kid 
gloves  '  to  finish  the  business  and  carry  off  the  honours," 

Leigh  Hunt  was  "  a  journalist  (I  again  quote  from  the  Examiner)  when  courage 
and  independence  were  the  highest  and  perhaps  the  rarest  qualities  a  journalist  could 
show,"  He  wrote  when  party  spirit  ran  high,  when  language  was  seldom  measured 
by  responsibility,  when  vituperation  was  a  weapon  in  common  use. 

In  the  year  1857  his  wife  had  died.  His  sons,  such  as  were  left  to  him,  had 
gone  forth  to  fight  the  battle  of  life;  his  mind  and  his  heart  were  "shaken,"  Li 
that  year  he  writes,  sadly  foreboding, — "  I  am  alone  in  the  world,"  Troubled  fancies 
haunted  him.  In  one  of  his  letters  to  his  friend,  John  Forster,  he  murmurs  : — "  I 
have  been  long  fancying  that  most  people,  some  old  friends  included,  had  begun  not 
to  care  what  T  said  or  thought  about  them — whether  anything  or  nothing;  "  and  in 
another  letter  he  writes, — "  Strange  to  say,  it  was  joy  at  finding  the  bookseller  offer 
me  more  money  than  I  had  expected  for  some  copyrights  that  was  the  immediate 
cause  of  my  illness,"  He  met  old  age  with  homage,  and  death  with  fortitude. 
Almost  the  last  sentence  in  his  autobiography  is  this  : — "  I  now  seemed — and  it  has 
become  a  consolation  to  me — to  belong  as  much  to  the  next  world  as  to  this  -  ,  ,  .  , 
the  approach  of  my  night-time  is  even  yet  adorned  with  a  break  in  the  clouds  and  a 
parting  smile  of  the  sunset." 

Alas  !  he  refers  not  to  the  hope  of  the  Christian,  but  to  a  far  dimmer,  less  rational, 
and  infinitely  less  consoling  faith — "  May  we  all  meet  in  one  of  Plato's  vast  cycles  of 
re-existence," 

*  A  notable  instance  of  this  was  the  altered  conduct  of  Professor  Wilson  towards  his  old  opponent.  He  not 
only  wrote  a  very  kindly  review  of  his  "  Legend  of  Florence  "  in  Blachwnod,  but  lamented  the  bitter  things  which 
had  been  written  in  its  early  numbers,  and  used  to  send  Leigh  Hunt  the  magazine  regularly  as  long  as  he  lived. 


=  54 


MEMORIES. 


^ 


Just  two  months  before  completing  his  seventy-fifth  year  "  he  quietly  sank  to 
rest."     The  oil  was  exhausted,  the  light  had  burned  gradually  down.*- 

When  I  saw  him  last  he  was  yielding  to  the  universal  conqueror.  His  loose  and 
straggling  white  hair  thinly  scattered  over  a  brow  of  manly  inteUigence  :  his  eyes 
dimmed  somewhat,  but  retaining  that  peculiar  gentleness  yet  brilliancy  which  in  his 
youth  were  likened  to  those  of  a  gazelle ;  his  earnest  heart  and  vigorous  mind  out- 


i 


THE   HOUSE   IN   WHICH   LEIGH   HUNT  DIED. 

speaking  yet,  in  sentences  eloquent  and  impressive  ;  his  form  partially  bent,  but 
energeti'c  and  self-dependent,  although  by  fits  and  starts— Leigh  Hunt  gave  me  the 
idea  of  a  sturdy  ruin,  that  "  wears  the  mossy  vest  of  time,"  but  which,  in  assuming 
the  graces  that  belong  of  right  to  age,  was  not  oblivious  of  the  power,  and  worth, 
and  triumph  enjoyed  in  manhood  and  in  youth,  f 


.  TT-»  laof  wnrV  onlv  a  few  days  before  his  death,  was  an  article  in  the  Spectator,  in  defence  of  his  beloved 
^  .      Mi,^  }^  • 'c+  liL  n^^^-^lnns  of  Hoffff  in  a  then  recently  published  collection  of  Shelley's  Letters. 

fr^^Y''ffivto "new  h?m  besrwiU  S^^^^^^^^^  to  themselv^es  clothed  in  a  dressing-gown,  and  bending  his 

head  over  a  book  or  over  the  desk."-THOKNTON  Hunt. 


4 


LEIGH  HUNT. 


He  died  at  the  house  of  one  of  the  oldest,  closest,  and  most  valued  of  his  friends, 
Mr.  C.  W.  Keynell,  in  High  Street,  Putney.  I  have  pictured  the  dwelling:  It  had  a 
good  gardeji,  where  the  poet  loved  to  ramble  to  admire  the  flowers,  of  which  he  was 
"  a  special  lover."  Immediately  in  front  is  the  old  gabled,  quaint-looking  Fairfax 
House,  in  which,  it  is  said,  Ireton  Hved,  and  where  that  general  and  Lambert  often 
met. 

It  is  pleasant  to  know  that  the  death-bed  of  the  aged  man  was  surrounded  by 
loving  friends,  and  that  all  which  care  and  skill  could  do  to  preserve  his  Hfe  was 
done. 

There  was  no  trouble,  nothing  of  gloom  about  him  at  the  last ;  the  full  volume 
of  his  life  was  closed;  his  work  on  earth  was  done.  Will  it  seem  "far-fetched  "  if 
we  describe  him  away  from  earth,  continuing  to  labour,  under  the  influence  of  that 
Eedeemer  I  am  sure  he  has  now  learned  to  love,  reahsing  the  picture  for  which  in 
the  Book  I  have  referred  to  he  drew  on  his  fancy— and  finding  it  fact  ? 

This  it  is  : — "  Surely  there  are  myriads  of  beings  everywhere  inhabiting  their 
respective  spheres,  both  visible  and  invisible,  all,  perhaps,  inspired  with  the  same 
task  of  trying  how  far  they  can  extend  happiness.  Some  may  have  realised  their 
heaven,  and  are  resting.  Some  may  be  helping  ourselves,  just  as  we  help  the  bee  or 
the  wounded  bird ;  spirits,  perhaps,  of  dear  friends,  who  still  pity  our  tears,  who 
rejoice  in  our  smiles,  and  whisper  in  our  hearts  a  belief  that  they  are  present." 

"  Millions  of  spiritual  creatures  walk  the  earth 
"Unseen,  both  when  we  wake  and  when  we  sleep." 

Leigh  Hunt  was  nearly  the  last  of  that  glorious  galaxy  of  genius  which,  early  in 
the  present  century,  shone  upon  the  intellectual  world ;  he  survived  them  all,  and 
with  a  memory  of  each.  Some  of  them  were  his  friends,  and  most  of  them  his 
acquaintances.      He  had  seen  star  after  star  decline,  but  might   exclaim,  and  did 

exclaim,  with  one  of  his  eloquent  contemporaries, — 

» 

"  Nor  sink  those  stars  in  empty  night : 
They  hide  themselves  in  Heaven's  own  light." 

When  writing  a  Memory  of  Leigh  Hunt  in  the  Art-Journal,  I  found  there  was  no 
record  to  mark  his  grave  in  the  cemetery  at  Kensal  Green,  where  he  was  buried.  I 
appealed,  therefore,  to  his  friends  and  admirers  to  remove  from  England  such  a 
"  reproach."  After  some  delay  and  some  confusion,  the  circumstances  causing  and 
attending  which  it  is  now  useless  and  needless  to  detail,  the  "reproach"  iras 
removed :  a  sum  sufficient  for  the  purpose  was  raised  by  subscription  :  *"  a  modest 
but  graceful  monument  was  wrought  by  the  eminent  and  accomplished  sculptor, 
Joseph  Durham,  A.R.A.  It  was  "inaugurated"  by  Lord  Houghton,  on  the  19th  of 
October,  1869  (Leigh  Hunt's  birthday),  and  formally  presented  to  the  family,  some 
of  whom  were  present,  on  the  impressive  and  interesting  occasion. 


*  I  ought  not  to  omit  to  state  that  I  received  from  an  estimable  gentleman  of  Philadelphia,  Mr.  C'hilds,  the 
editor  of  the  Public  Ledger,  an  offer  to  pay  the  whole  of  the  cost  of  the  proposed  monument,  whatever  it  might  be. 
1  did  not  accept  that  offer,  but  I  was  proud  and  happy  to  add  his  honoured  name  to  the  list  of  subscribers. 


256  MEMORIES. 


From  the  uoble  lord's  address  I  extract  the  following  passages  : — 

"  He  was  held  up  to  sbame  as  an  enemy  of  religion,  whereas  he  was  a  man  from  whose  heart 
there  came  a  flowing  piety  spreading  itself  over  all  nature  and  in  every  channel  in  which  it  was 
possible  to  run.  I  remember  a  passtige  in  one  of  his  writings  in  which  he  says  he  never  passed  a 
church,  of  however  unreformed  a  faith,  without  an  instinctive  wish  to  go  in  and  worship  for  the 
good  of  mankind.  And  all  this  obloquy,  all  this  injustice,  all  this  social  cruelty,  never  for  one 
moment  soured  the  disposition  or  excited  a  revengeful  feeling  in  the  breast  of  this  good  man.  He 
had,  as  it  were — I  have  no  other  phrase  for  it— a  superstition  of  good.  He  did  not  believe  in  the 
existence  of  evil,  and  when  it  pressed  against  him,  in  the  bitterest  form  against  himself,  he  shut  his 
eyes  to  it,  and.  believed  it  to  be  good.  Now,  with  this  disposition,  with  this  character,  with  th^se 
elements  of  life,  surely  we  do  well  in  honouring  this  man  to-day.  Surely  it  is  something  that  len 
years  after  his  death  there  t-hould  have  been  men  who  felt  it  was  not  well  but  that  there  should  be 
some  special  memorial  of  his  existence — something  which  should  tell  people,  more  than  hooks  they 
were  reading,  that  there  had  been  in  England  such  a  man.  In  uncovering  the  monument  we  shall 
lionour  not  only  that  man,  but  we  shall  honour  the  poetic  intellect,  we  shall  honour  that  delightful 
faculty  which  gives  to  mankind  its  purest  form  of  intellectual  contemplation,  and  which,  somehow 
or  other,  adapting  itself  to  the  different   temperaments  of  mankind,   always  either  extends,  or 

purifies,  or  expands  the  mind  of  its  possessor We  know  that  through  all  the  difficulties  of 

a  more  than  usually  hard  life  he  kept  to  the  end  a  cheerfulness  of  temper  which  the  most  successful 
might  have  envied  and  the  wealthiest  might  have  adorned.  In  his  own  beautiful  words,  all  we  can 
now  think  of  is — 

'  The  woe  was  short,  'twas  fugitive  ;  'tis  past ; 
The  song  that  sweetens  it  will  always  last.'  ' 

The  inscription  is  very  simple  :  on  one  side  are  recorded  the  days  of  his  birth  and 
death,  while  on  another  are  the  words, — 

"  Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow-men." 

Two  of  his  sons  have  followed  him  to  the  grave  :  one  of  them  had  long  been  the 
sub-editor  of  a  leading  newspaper. 


I 


JAMES   AND   HOEACE   SMITH. 


•HEKE  is  no  memoir  of  Horace  Smith,  but  he  wrote  a  biography 
of  his  brother  James,  to  preface  an  edition  of  his  collected 
writings ;  and  although  singularly,  and  perhaps  blamably,  abne- 
gating himself,  we  thence  gather  a  few  facts  and  dates  that  may 
aid  us  in  recalling  both  to  memory.  The  brothers,  of  whom  James 
was  the  elder  by  about  four  years,  were  the  sons  of  Robert  Smith, 
Esq.,  an  eminent  legal  practitioner  of  London,  who  long  held  the 
office  of  Solicitor  to  the  Ordnance — an  office  in  which  James  suc- 
ceeded him.  He  was  also  a  Fellow  of  the  Royal  Society  and  of 
the  Society  of  Antiquaries,  and  in  all  respects  an  estimable  and  accomplished  gentle- 
man. Horace,  having  eschewed  the  legal  profession,  preferred  that  of  a  stockbroker  ; 
a  business,  however,  hardly  more  to  his  taste,  and  in  which  he  made  no  "figure," 
being,  from  his  youth  upwards,  better  known  at  Parnassus  than  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
Exchange.  Both  wrote  early  in  life,  somewhat  to  the  dismay  of  the  father,  who  had 
paved  the  way  to  fortune  through  another  and  very  opposite  path.*    Notwithstanding 


*  The  earliest  anecdote  recorded  of  Horace  is  this :— In  a  letter  to  Mathews  he  relates  that  when  at  school, 
being  asked  the  Latin  for  the  word  cowardice,  and  having  forgotten  it,  he  replied  that  the  Romans  had  none; 
which  being  fortunately  deemed  a  Ion  mot,  he  got  praise  and  a  laugh  for  not  knowing  his  lesson. 

S 


258  MEMORIES. 


when  Horace  produced  historical  novels,  he  not  only  took  interest  in  his  son's 
productions,  hut  gave  him  "  aid  and  suggestions,"  which,  by  his  extensive  reading 
and  profound  knowledge  of  English  history,  he  was  well  qualified  to  do. 

James  was  born  on  the  16th  of  February,  1775,  and  Horace  in  1779,  at  the  house 
in  which  their  father  dwelt  in  Basinghall  Street,  London.  There  was  also  another 
son,  Leonard,  and  there  were  six  daughters. 

The  boys  were  educated  at  Chigwell,  in  Essex.  In  after  years,  when  "  a  sexage- 
narian pilgrim,"  James  frequently  recalled  to  memory  with  pleasure  and  with  grati- 
tude the  years  there  passed  ;  and  on  revisiting  the  place  towards  the  close  of  life,  he 
thus  murmured  his  latest  thoughts  : — 

"  Life's  cup  is  nectar  at  the  brink, 
Midway  a  palatable  drink, 
And  ■wormwood  at  the  bottom." 

James  was  articled  to  his  father  in  1792,  subsequently  became  his  partner,  and 
in  1832  succeeded  him.  He  had  tried  his  "  'prentice  ban'  "  in  various  short-lived 
periodicals,  especially  the  Monthbj  Mirror,  edited  by  Tom  Hill.*  When  Drury  Lane 
was  burned  and  rose  again — to  adopt  an  original  simile — -like  a  Phoenix  from  its 
ashes  (it  was  in  1812),  there  appeared  an  advertisement  ofiering  a  recompense  for  a 
poem  in  honour  of  the  occasion.  The  idea  occurred  to  these  mercantile  brothers 
that  they  would  write  and  print  a  collection  of  Poems,  imitative  of  all  the  leading 
poets  of  the  time.  They  did  so,  and  "  woke  to  find  themselves  famous."  And  no 
wonder  :  they  are  fine  as  compositions,  and  singularly  true  as  copies  of  the  style  and 
manner  of  the  poets  imitated  ;  while  so  exquisitely  pointed  and  witty,  without  a 
particle  of  ill-nature,  that  not  one  of  the  bards  who  were  "hit"  could  have  been 
ofi'ended  at  being  touched,  as  if  by  arrows  tipped  with  feathers  from  the  wings  of  a 
Cupid  or  a  seraph. 

"  One  of  the  luckiest  hits  in  literature  "  (thus  Horace  modestly  speaks  of  the 
work)  "  appeared  on  the  reopening  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre  in  October  of  that  year." 
The  idea  was  suggested  just  six  weeks  before  that  event,  and  the  "  Kejected 
Addresses  "  occupied  the  writers  no  longer  time.  The  copyright  was  ofi"ered  to,  and 
declined  by,  Mr.  Murray,  for  the  modest  sum  of  £20.  He  reluctantly  undertook  to 
publish  it,  and  share  the  profits — if  any ;  and  it  is  not  a  little  singular  that  the  worthy 
publisher  did  actually  purchase  the  book,  in  1819,  after  it  had  gone  through  fifteen 
editions,  for  the  sum  of  £131.  May  such  results  often  follow  transactions  between 
publishers  and  authors  ! 

James  wrote  the  imitations  of  Wordsworth,  Southey,  Coleridge,  Crabbe,  and 
Cobbett ;  Horace  those  of  Byron,  Scott,  Moore,  Monk  Lewis,  and  Fitzgerald.  The 
sarcasms  were  so  genuine,  the  humour  so  ample,  and  the  imitations  so  true,  that  no 
one  of  the  poets  took  ofi'ence ;  on  the  contrary,  they  were  all  gratified.  It  has  been 
rightly  said  by  Mr.  Hayward,  "  that  the  only  discontented  persons  were  those  who 
were  left  out."     Crabbe  said  of  the  imitation  of  him — "  There  is  a  little  ill-nature — 

*  Southey  writes  in  one  of  his  letters  in  1813,— "'Horace  in  London'  was  printed  some  years  ago  in  the 
Monthly  Mirror.  I  remarked  it  at  the  time,  and  wondered  that  it  did  not  attract  more  notice.  James  wrote  the 
first  of  the  '  At  Homes '  ^in  1808)  for  Mathews  :  it  was  entitled  '  Mail-Coach  Adventures.'  " 


i 


JAMES  AND  HORACE  SMITH. 


259 


and  I  take  the  liberty  of  adding,  undeserved  ill-nature — in  their  prefatory  address  ; 
but  in  their  versification  they  have 
done  me  admirably." 

The  brothers  became  "  lions  "  at 
once  ;  but  they  had  no  notion  of 
revelling  in  notoriety ;  of  literary 
vanity  they  had  none,  and  they 
shrank  from,  rather  than  courted, 
the  stare  of  "admirers,"  to  whom 
any  celebrity  of  the  hour  was — and 
is — a  thing  coveted  and  desired. 

This  story  has  been  often  told. 
When  the  venerable  has  bleu,  Lady 
Cork,  invited  them  to  her  soiree, 
James  Smith  wrote  his  regret  that 
they  could  not  possibly  accept  the 
invitation,  for  that  his  brother  Horace 
was  engaged  to  grin  through  a  horse- 
collar  at  a  country  fair,  and  he  him- 
self had  to  dance  a  hornpipe  at 
Sadler's  Wells  upon  that  very  night.* 

James  reposed  on  his  laurels  :  as 
his  brother  says,  "  he  was  fond  of 
his  ease,"  and  unsolicitous  of  further 
celebrity,  never  again  wooing  a  pro- 
verbially capricious  public,  content- 
ing himself  with  flinging  scraps  of 
humour  here  and  there,  heedless  of 
their  value  or  their  fate ;  while 
Horace  became  a  laborious  man  of 
letters.  Of  James,  Mathews  used 
to  say,  "He  is  the  only  man  who 
can  write  clever  nonsense."  He 
lived  among  wits — dramatic  wits 
more  especially — and  from  him  some 
of  them  derived  much  that  consti- 
tuted their  stock  in  trade.  His 
motto  was  "  Vive  la  bagatelle  !  " 
his  maxim,  "  Begone,  dull  care  !  " 
His  sparkle  was  that  of  champagne. 
But,  as  one  of  his  friends  wrote, 
"  he  ever  preserved   the  dignity  of  the  English    gentleman    fr 


om   merging  in   the 


*  Horace  says  that  though  such  a  letter  may  have  been  wi'itten,  it  was  never  sent. 

S    2 


professional  gaiety  of  the  jester;"  there  was  never  aught  of  sneering  or  sarcasm 
in  his  humour — his  wit  was  never  a  stab.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  buoyant 
and  genial,  even  when  enduring  much  bodily  suffering  ;  and  there  was  no  mistaking 
the  fact  that  he  loved  to  give  pleasure  rather  than  pain. 

Horace,  on  the  other  hand,  became  a  worker  ;  he  took  the  pen  seriously  and 
resolutely  in  hand,  and  although  not  at  any  time  dependent  on  literature,  became  an 
author  by  profession,  joining  the  immortal  band  who 

"  live  for  aye 
In  Fame's  eternal  volume." 

James  died  on  the  24th  of  December,  1839,  in  the  sixty-fifth  year  of  his  age,  and 
was  buried  under  the  vaults  of  St.  Martin's  Church.  Horace  died  on  the  12th  of 
July,  1849,  aged  sixty-nine,  and  was  buried  in  the  churchyard  of  Trinity  Church, 
Tunbridge  Wells. 

James  "  seldom  wrote,  except  as  an  amusement  and  relief  from  graver  occupa- 
tion. Though  he  may  be  described  as  a  wit  by  profession,  his  nature  was  kindly, 
genial,  and  generous."  One  who  knew  him  intimately  avers  that  it  was  "  difficult 
to  pass  an  evening  in  his  company  without  feeling  in  better  humour  with  the  world;" 
and  many  of  his  friends  have  testified  to  his  inexhaustible  fund  of  amusement  and 
information,  and  his  "  lightness,  liveliness,  and  good  sense." 

Of  James  his  brother  writes  : — "  His  was  not  the  sly,  sneering  sarcasm  that  finds 
most  pleasure  in  the  bon  mot  that  gives  pain,  nor  was  it  of  that  dry,  quiet  character 
which  gives  zest  to  a  joke  by  the  apparent  unconsciousness  of  its  author.  His  good 
sayings  were  heightened  by  his  cordial  good  nature,  by  the  beaming  smile,  the 
twinkling  eye,  and  the  frank,  hearty  cachinnation  that  showed  his  own  enjoyment." 
He  had  a  remarkably  tenacious  memory,  and  was  ever  ready  with  an  apt  quotation 
from  the  old  poets  ;  and  he  pleasantly  sang  some  of  his  own  songs. 

I  recall  to  memory  one  of  his  jeux  cV esprit ;  I  am  not  sure  if  it  be  published  : — 

"  Cfelia  publishes  ■with  Murray, 
Cupid's  ministry  is  o'er  : 
Lovers  vanish  in  a  hurry  ; 
She  writes — she  writes,  boys. 
Ward  otf  shore !  " 

And  I  have  another  in  MS.,  "  The  Alphabet  to  Madame  Vestris  :" 

"  Though  not  with  lace  bedizened  o'er  ^ 

From  James's  and  from  Howell's, 
Oh,  don't  despise  us  twenty-four 

Poor  consonants  and  vowels. 
Though  critics  may  your  powers  discuss, 

Yoxu-  charms,  admiring,  men  see, 
Eemember  you  froni  four  of  us 

Derive  yom'  X  L  N  C." 

Although  I  more  than  once  visited  James  Smith  at  his  house  in  Craven  Street,  I 
saw  most  of  him — and  it  was  the  best  of  him — at  the  "  evenings  "  of  Lady  Blessing- 
ton  in  Seamore  Place.  He  was  not  far  off  from  his  grave,  and  was  usually  full  of 
pain  :  it  was  often  shown  by  that  expression  of  countenance  which  accompanies 
physical  suffering,  and  his  round,  good-humoured  face,  although  it  was  seldom  with- 
out a  smile,  was  generally  contracted,  and  at  times  convulsed  from  internal  agony. 
He  had  eyes  full  of  humour — he  looked  as  if  all  things,  animate  and  inanimate,  were 


JAMES  AND  HORACE  SMITH.  26 r 

suggestive  of  jokes,  which  were  continually  slipping  in  and  playing  about  during  any 
pause  in  any  conversation. 

Leigh  Hunt  described  him  as  "a  fair,  stout,  fresh-coloured  man,  with  round 
features;"  and  N.  P.  Willis  as  a  man  "with  white  hair,  and  a  very  nobly-formed 
head  and  physiognomy ;  his  eye  alone,  small,  and  with  lids  contracted  into  an 
habitual  look  of  drollery,  betrayed  the  bent  of  his  genius." 

He  wheeled  himself  about  the  room  in  a  sort  of  invalid  chair,  and  had  generally 
something  pleasant,  and  often  something  witty,  to  say  to  each  of  the  guests,  his 
beautiful  and  accomplished  hostess  coming,  naturally,  in  for  the  largest  share  of  both. 
He  was  tall  and  stout,  and  the  merry  twinkle  of  his  eye  gave  evidence  that  his 
thoughts  were  redolent  of  humour,  even  when  he  did  not  speak.  Some  one  has  said, 
"  He  had  the  head  of  a  man,  with  the  heart  of  a  boy." 

Horace  Smith  was  of  another,  and  certainly  a  higher  nature.  Leigh  Hunt  deposes 
to  "  the  fine  nature  of  the  man  "  (and  well  he  might  do  so,  having  had  experience  of 
his  liberality),  and  pictures  him  as  "  of  good  and  manly  figure,  inclining  to  the  robust; 
his  countenance  extremely  frank  and  cordial,  sweetness  without  weakness."  And 
Shelley,  writing  of  him,  exclaims  : — "  It  is  odd  that  the  only  truly  generous  person  I 
ever  knew  who  had  money  to  be  generous  with  should  be  a  stockbroker."  *  "  Gay, 
tender,  hospitable,  and  intellectual,"  that  is  Lady  Morgan's  character  of  Horace 
Smith  ;  and  this  is  Southey's  testimony  to  the  credit  of  the  brothers  both  : — "  They 
are  clever  fellows,  with  wit  and  humour  as  fluent  as  their  ink,  and,  to  then-  praise  be 
it  spoken,  with  no  gall  in  it." 

Yes,  certainly  Horace  v?as  of  a  far  higher  nature  than  James.  Perhaps  it  was 
fairly  said  of  them,  "  One  was  a  good  man,  the  other  a  good  fellow."  But  Horace 
was  happily  married,  and  had  loving  children,  enjoyed  a  healthy  constitution,  and 
Hved  in  comparative  retirement,  away  from  the  bustle  of  society,  in  a  tranquil  home. 
During  the  later  years  of  his  life  he  resided  at  Brighton — it  was  not  then  as  it  is  now, 
London-on-sea,  where  everybody  meets  everybody,  and  nods  of  recognition  are  about 
as  many  as  the  steps  one  takes  when  promenading  the  Parade. 

He  was  twice  married,  and  left  a  daughter  by  his  first  wife,  and  two  daughters 
by  his  second,  who  was  the  maternal  aunt  of  Mr.  E.  M.  Ward,  K.A.,  the  artist,  and 
it  is  from  a  sketch  by  him  of  his  uncle  that  I  engrave  the  portrait  at  the  head  of  this 
Memory.  Mr.  Ward  retains  affectionate  remembrances  of  Horace  Smith,  of  his  love 
for  children,  and  the  delight  that  was  caused  in  his  father's  house  whenever  "  Uncle 
Horace  "  was  expected  :  his  arrival  was  ever  the  signal  of  a  merry-making.  He 
usually  placed  the  children  on  his  knees,  and  regaled  them  with  fairy  tales  told  in 
extempore  verse. 

It  was  at  Brighton  I  knew  Horace  Smith,  so  far  back  as  the  year  1835.  My 
knowledge  of  him,  though  limited,  enables  me  to  endorse  the  opinions  I  have  quoted 


*■  That,  however,  was  not  an  "  odd  thing."  It  is  known  that  on  "  the  Stock  Exchange  "  originate  very  many 
charities  •  that,  inde'ed,  scarcely  a  day  passes  there  without  some  subscription-list  being  handed  about  +0  relieve 
want  and'  suffeiing,  public  and  private.  Many  thousand  pounds  are  there  collected  of  which  the  world  hears  and 
knows  nothing  and  the  number  of  persons  thus  assisfed  amounts  to  several  hundreds  annually.  Some  of  the  best 
"  charities  "  of 'England  had  their  birth  at  this  place  of  busy  traflac,  where,  apparently  and  outwardly,  the  mind  and 
soul  are  exclusively  occupied  in  money-g -ttinff. 


262  MEMORIES. 

from  better  authorities.  He  was  tall,  handsome,  with  expressive  yet  quiet  features ; 
they  were  frequently  moved,  however,  when  he  either  heard  or  said  a  good  thing, 
and  it  was  easy  to  perceive  the  latent  humour  that  did  not  come  to  the  surface  as 
often  as  it  might  have  done.  It  is  saying  little  if  I  say  I  never  heard  him  utter  an 
injurious  word  of  any  one  of  his  contemporaries,  although  our  usual  talk  concerned 
them ;  for  I  was  at  that  time  editor  of  the  New  Monthly,  to  which  he  was  a  frequent 
contributor,  and  he  liked  to  know  something  of  his  associates  in  letters,  the  greater 
number  of  whom,  I  believe,  he  had  never  seen.  He  knew  their  writings,  however, 
and  was  certainly  an  extensive  reader  as  well  as  a  sound  thinker,  and  always  a 
generous  and  sympathising  critic.  I  copy  one  of  his  letters  ;  it  is  evidence  of  that 
which  was  the  leading  characteristic  of  his  mind — a  total  abnegation  of  self. 

"  nth  October,  1831. 

"  10,  Hanover  Crescent. 
"I  am  sorry  you  should  deem  the  smallest  apology  necessary  for  returnina:  my  MS.,  a  duty 
which  every  editor  must  occasionally  exercise  towards  all  his  contributors.  From  my  domestic 
habits  and  love  of  occupation  I  am  always  scribbling,  often  without  due  consideration  of  what  I  am 
■writing,  and  I  only  wonder  that  so  many  of  my  frivolities  have  found  their  way  into  print.  With 
this  feeling,  I  am  always  grateful  towards  those  who  save  me  from  committing  myself,  and 
acquiesce  very  willingly  in  their  decisions.  In  proof  of  this  I  will  mention  a  fact  of  which  I  am 
rather  proud.  Mr.  Colburn  had  agreed  to  give  nie  £500  for  the  first  novel  I  wrote,  and  had 
announced  its  appearance,  when  a  mutual  friend,  who  looked  over  the  MS.,  having  expressed  an 
unfavourable  opinion  of  it,  I  threw  it  in  the  fire,  and  wrote  '  Brambletye  House '  instead.  Let  me 
not  omit  to  mention,  to  the  credit  of  Mr.  C,  that,  upon  the  unexpected  success  of  that  work,  he 
subsequently  presented  me  with  an  additional  £100.  "Yours  very  truly, 

"Horatio  Smith." 

His  novels  are  still  "  asked  for"  at  the  circulating  libraries,  and,  perhaps,  as  his- 
torical romances,  they  even  now  hold  their  place  next  to  those  of  Scott,  while  among 
his  collected  poems  are  many  of  great  beauty  and  of  much  strength.  I  believe,  how- 
ever, that  after  the  publication  of  "Rejected  Addresses"  he  preferred  to  consider  the 
comic  vein  exhausted. 

Horace  was  not  rich  ;  indeed,  neither  of  the  brothers  was  so.  James  never  could 
have  amassed  money,  notwithstanding  he  was  Solicitor  to  the  Board  of  Ordnance. 
He  invested  his  whole  capital,  amounting  to  no  more  than  £3,000,  in  the  purchase  of  an 
annuity,  and  died  three  months  after  it  was  bought.  Horace  bequeathed  to  his  widow 
and  children  an  ample  sufficiency,  although  he  was  far  too  generous  to  become 
wealthy.  Shelley  did  not  know  that  it  was  out  of  comparatively  limited  means,  and 
not  a  superfluity,  that  he  relieved,  at  the  entreaty  of  the  former,  the  pressing  wants 
of  Leigh  Hunt.  Many  other  instances  may  be  recorded  of  his  generosity  in  giving — 
or  lending,  which  often  means  much  the  same  thing — to  less  prosperous  brothers  of 
the  pen. 

He  was,  indeed,  emphatically  a  good  man;  of  large  sympathy  and  charity; 
generous  in  giving,  even  beyond  his  means ;  eminent  for  rectitude  in  all  the  affairs 
and  relations  of  life;  and  "richly  meriting"  the  praises  that  are  inscribed  on  his 
tombstone  in  the  graveyard  at  Tunbridge  Wells. 


i 


G.   P.  R.  JAMES.  263 


a    p.    E.    JAMES. 

Very  little  is  known  of  the  life  of  George  Payne  Eainsford  James  ;  yet  he  was  the 
author  of  forty  novels,  each  in  three  volumes,  and  produced  other  works,  outnumber- 
ing, indeed,  the  productions  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  He  began  to  publish  in  1822,  his 
first  book  being  a  "  Life  of  the  Black  Prince."  In  1829  "  Kichelieu  "  appeared,  and 
from  that  time  the  issues  of  his  fertile  brain  came  so  rapidly  before  the  public  as  to 
create  astonishment  at  his  industry,  and  the  "  speed  "  at  which  he  worked  with  his 
pen. 

I  knew  him  and  esteemed  him  much  as  an  agreeable  and  kindly  gentleman,  some- 
what handsome  in  person,  and  of  very  pleasant  manners.  He  had  the  aspect,  and 
indeed  the  character,  that  usually  marks  a  man  of  sedentary  occupations.  His  work 
all  day  long,  and  often  into  the  night,  must  have  been  untiring,  for  he  by  no  means 
drew  exclusively  on  his  fancy ;  he  must  have  resorted  much  to  books,  and  have  been 
a  great  reader,  not  only  of  English,  but  of  continental  histories  ;  and  he  travelled  a 
good  deal  in  the  countries  in  which  the  scenes  of  his  historic  fictions  were  principally 
laid. 

His  novels  have  always  been  popular — they  are  so  now — although  many  com- 
petitors for  fame,  with  higher  aims  and  perhaps  loftier  genius,  have  of  late  years  supplied 
the  circulating  libraries.  It  was  no  light  thing  to  run  a  race  with  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
and  not  be  altogether  beaten  out  of  the  field.  His  great  charm  was  the  interest  he 
created  in  relating  a  story,  but  he  had  masterly  skill  in  delineating  character,  and  in 
"  chivalric  essays  "  none  of  his  brethren  surpassed  him.  He  received  this  tribute, 
and  it  is  a  just  one,  from  the  historian  Alison  : — 

"  There  is  a  constant  appeal  in  his  brilliant  pages,  not  only  to  the  pure  and  generous,  but  to  the 
elevated  and  noble  sentiments.  He  is  imbued  with  the  very  soul  of  chivalry,  and  all  his  stories 
turn  on  the  final  triumph  of  those  who  are  influenced  by  such  feelings.  Not  a  word  or  a  thought 
which  can  give  pain  to  the  purest  heart  ever  escapes  from  his  pen." 

Christopher  North  proclaimed  his  works  to  be  those  of  "  a  gentleman,"  while  he 
spoke  highly  of  their  graphic  power ;  and  Leigh  Hunt  "  hit  the  vein  "  in  which  he 
wrote,  and  which  constituted  the  charm  of  his  writings  : — "Interest  without  violence, 
and  entertainment  at  once  animated  and  mild  ;  novels  which  have  been  tonics  to  the 
critic  in  illness  and  in  convalescence." 

As  "  next  to  nothing  "  is  known  of  the  life  of  so  remarkable  a  man — one  who  has, 
for  half  a  century,  kept  a  foremost  place  among  British  writers  of  fiction — I  gladly 
avail  myself  of  some  notes  furnished  to  me  by  a  lady  who  knew  him  well  and  long, 

"  He  was  born  in  London,  August  9th,  1800.  He  first  studied  medicine,  but  at 
an  early  age  showed  a  love  of  letters,  and,  when  very  young,  published  several  short 
tales  and  poems — among  them  the  '  String  of  Pearls.'  During  the  exciting  times 
that  followed  the  abdication  of  Napoleon,  he  visited  France  and  Spain,  and  no 
doubt  thus  obtained  the  perfect  knowledge  of  the  history  of  those  countries  afterwards 
displayed  in  his  writings.  He  married  a  daughter  of  Dr.  Thomas,  and  for  some  time 
after  his  marriage  resided  in  different  parts  of  France,  Italy,  and  Scotland,  where  he 
became  acquainted  with,  and  gained  the  friendship  of.  Sir  Walter  Scott.  It  was  Sir 
Walter    who,   after    perusing  '  Richelieu,'   advised    him    to    adopt    literature    as  a 


264  MEMORIES. 


profession.  '  Richelieu  '  was  published  in  1829,  and  it  is  well  known  how  successful 
was  the  career  of  the  author,  and  how  eagerly  the  appearance  of  a  new  work  from 
his  pen  was  looked  for  by  the  public ;  but  to  those  who  knew  him  in  his  home,  in 
addition  to  the  admiration  felt  for  him  as  an  author,  there  could  not  fail  to  be  joined 
sincere  esteem  for  him  as  a  man.  He  had  a  large  and  noble  heart,  and  was  always 
a  kind  friend  to  those  who  needed  assistance,  especially  to  his  poorer  literary 
brethren,  whilst  his  courteous,  gentlemanly  bearing  gained  him  friends  in  all  ranks 
of  society. 

"About  1842  Mr.  James  took  up  his  residence  at  Walmer,  and  was  a  frequent 
guest  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington  at  Walmer  Castle.  In  1845  he  left  England  with  his 
family  for  a  short  visit  to  Germany,  partly  for  recreation  and  partly  to  collect  some 
information  connected  with  the  '  History  of  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion,'  a  work  he  was 
then  writing.  The  illness  of  two  of  his  children  detained  him  for  a  year,  and  at 
Carlsruhe  and  Baden-Baden  '  Heidelberg  '  and  the  '  Castle  of  Ehrenstein  '  were  com- 
posed. Soon  after  his  return  to  England,  he  removed  to  the  neighbourhood  of  Farn- 
ham,  Surrey,  and  there  he  wrote  with  great  rapidity.  His  industry  was  immense  ; 
his  custom  was  to  rise  at  five  o'clock  and  write  till  nine.  For  four  or  five  hours 
later  in  the  day  he  employed  an  amanuensis,  and  usually  Avalked  to  and  fro  his  study 
while  dictating.  In  June,  1850,  Mr.  James  left  England  with  his  family  to  visit  the 
United  States,  and  purchased  an  estate  in  Massachusetts,  where  he  continued  to 
reside  till  he  was  appointed  British  Consul  at  Norfolk,  Virginia,  in  1852.  His  duties 
there  were  very  arduous,  and  his  health  suffered  greatly  from  the  climate,  which  was 
rendered  more  than  usually  trying  to  European  residents,  at  that  time,  by  the  terrible 
scourge  which  frequently  ravages  the  Southern  States — yellow  fever. 

"During  Mr.  James's  residence  in  the  States  he  wrote  several  works,  taking 
American  life  and  history  for  their  subjects,  such  as  '  Ticonderoga,'  '  The  Old 
Dominion/  &c.  The  last  work  he  published  in  Philadelphia  was  '  Lord  Montague's 
Page,'  in  1858.  '  Bernard  Marsh,'  a  sequel  to  this,  appeared  afterwards,  and  was 
the  last  work  that  emanated  from  the  pen  of  this  highly-gifted  author^  making  a  total 
of  about  one  hundred  and  ninety  volumes. 

"  In  1859  Mr.  James  was  removed,  at  his  earnest  request,  from  the  Consulate  of 
Norfolk  to  that  of  Venice,  his  friends  hoping  that  the  ItaUan  chmate  might  benefit  his 
health  and  restore  his  strength,  but  although  he  at  first  seemed  to  improve  from  the 
change,  the  demands  upon  his  mental  powers  were  so  great  that  even  his  untiring 
energy  was  unequal  to  the  task  imposed  upon  it.  Soon  after  the  arrival  of  Mr.  James 
in  Italy,  war  broke  out,  and  Venice  was  besieged,  which  added  greatly  to  the  fatigue 
and  anxiety  of  the  consul's  position,  and  in  the  early  part  of  1860  he  was  seized  with 
an  illness  that  proved  fatal  in  the  April  of  that  year.  He  was  interred  in  the  Protestant 
Cemetery  at  Venice,  and  a  monument  was  erected  to  his  memory  by  the  English 
residents  of  that  city. 

"  Mr.  James  left  a  widow,  one  daughter,  and  three  sons.  He  was  a  most  kind 
and  aff'ectiunate  husband  and  father,  a  warm-hearted,  faithful  friend,  a  genial 
companion,  and  to  sum  up  all  good  qualities  in  one  comprehensive  title,  a  Christian 
gentleman." 


L^TITIA   ELIZABETH   LANDOK 


'  ITH  unmingled  pain  I  write  the  name  of  Lsetitia  Elizabeth 
Landon — the  L.  E,  L.  whose  poems  were  for  so  long  a 
period  the  delight  of  all  readers,  old  and  young.  Her  life 
was  a  "battle"  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave — the  grave  in 
which  she  "  rests  from  her  labours  "  in  that  far-off  land  where 
the  white  man  ever  walks  hand  in  hand  with  death. 

We  were  among  the  few  friends  who  knew  her  intimately ; 
but  it  was  not  in  her  nature  to  open  her  heart  to  any.     Her 
large    "  secretiveness "    was    her   bane ;     she    knew   it   and 
deplored    it.     It  was    the  origin   of  that    misconception    which  embittered 
her   whole    life,    the   mainspring    of   that   calumny   which    made   Fame    a 
mockery,    and  Glory  a  deceit.      But  when   Slander  was   busiest  with    her 
reputation,  we  had  the  best  means  to  confute  it — and  did.     For  some  years 
there  was  not  a  single  week  during  which,  on  some  day  or  other,  morning 
j'        or  evening,  she  was  not  a  guest  at  our  house.     Yet  this  blight  in  her  spring- 
time undoubtedly  led   to  the  fatal  marriage  that  resulted  in  her  mournful  and 
mysterious   death.     The    calumny   was    of   the   kind    that   most   deeply  wounds    a 
woman.     How  it  originated  was,  at  the  time,  and  is,  of  course,  now,  impossible  to 
say.     Probably  its  source  was  nothing  more  than  a  sneer ;  but  it  bore  Dead-Sea 


266  MEMORIES. 


fruit.  A  slander  more  utterly  groundless  never  was  propagated.  In  after  years  it 
was  revived  with  '•  additions,"  and  broke  off  an  engagement  that  promised  much 
happiness  with  a  gentleman  then  eminent  and  since  famous  as  an  author  :  not  that  he  at 
any  time  gave  credence  to  the  foul  and  wicked  rumour;  but,  to  /ter,  "  inquiry''  was 
a  sufficient  blight,  and  by  lier  the  contract  was  annulled.*  The  utter  impossibility  of 
its  being  other  than  false  could  have  been  proved  not  only  by  us,  but  by  a  dozen  of 
her  intimate  friends,  whose  evidence  would  have  been  without  question,  and  conclu- 
sive. She  was  living  in  a  school  for  young  ladies,  seen  daily  by  the  ladies  who  kept 
that  school,  and  by  the  pupils.  In  one  of  her  letters  to  Mrs.  Hall,  she  writes, — "  I 
have  lived  nearly  all  my  life  since  childhood  with  the  same  people ;  the  Misses  Lance 
are  strict,  scrupulous,  and  particular :  moreover,  from  having  kept  a  school  so  long, 
with  habits  of  minute  observation.  The  affection  they  feel  for  me  can  hardly  be 
undeserved.  I  would  desire  nothing  more  than  to  refer  to  their  opinion."  Dr.  Thom- 
son, her  constant  medical  friend  and  adviser,  testified  long  afterwards  to  "her  esti- 
mable qualities,  generous  feelings,  and  exalted,  virtues."  It  would,  indeed,  have  been 
easy  to  obtain  proof  abundant ;  but  in  such  cases  the  very  effort  to  lessen  the  evil 
atigments  it.  There  was  no  way  of  fighting  with  a  shadow  ;  it  was  found  impossible 
to  trace  the  rumour  to  any  actual  source.  Few,  then,  and  perhaps  none  now,  can 
tell  how  deeply  the  poisoned  arrow  entered  her  heart.  Ay,  if  ever  woman  was, 
Laetitia  Landon  was  "  done  to  death  by  slanderous  tongues." 

I  have  touched  upon  this  theme  reluctantly;  perhaps  it  might  have  been  omitted 
altogether  ;  but  it  seems  to  me  absolutely  necessary  in  order  to  comprehend  the 
character  of  the  poet  towards  her  close  of  life,  and  the  mystery  of  a  marriage  that 
so  "  unequally  yoked  "  her  to  one  utterly  unworthy. 

Here  is  a  passage  from  one  of  her  letters  to  Mrs.  Hall  without  a  date,  but  it  must 
have  been  written  in  1836,  when  she  was  suffering  terribly  under  the  bHght  of  evil 
report : — 

"I  have  long  since  discovered  tiiat  I  must  be  prepared  for  enmity  I  have  never  provoked,  and 
imkindness  I  have  little  deserved.  God  knows  that  if,  when  I  do  go  into  society,  I  meet  with 
more  homage  and  attention  than  most,  it  is  dearly  bought.  What  is  my  life?  One  day  of 
drudgery  after  another  ;  difficulties  incurred  for  others  which  have  ever  pressed  upon  me  be3'ond 
health,  which  every  year,  by  one  severe  illness  after  another,  is  taxed  beyond  its  strength  ;  envy, 
malice',  and  all  unc'haritableness,— these  are  the  fruits  of  a  successful  literary  career  for  a  woman." 

Yet  she  was  slow  to  believe  that  false  and  evil  words  could  harm  her  !  At  first 
they  seemed  but  to  inspire  her,  in  her  innocence,  with  a  dangerous  confidence,  and 
to  increase  a  practice  we  always  deplored  of  saying  things  for  "effect" — things  in 
which  she  did  not  believe.  Certainly  no  advocate  of  Miss  Landon  can  affirm  that  the 
"bright  ornament"  of  Truth  was  hers.  It  was  no  use  telling  her  this;  she  would 
argue  that  a  conversation  of  facts  would  be  as  dull  as  a  work  on  algebra,  and  that  all 
she  did  was  to  put  her  poetry  into  practice. 

Poor  child  !  poor  girl  !  poor  woman !     What  a  melancholy  volume  is  her  brief 


*  There  is  no  reason  now  why  I  should  not  give  the  name  of  John  Forster  ;  he  met  Miss  Landon  first  at  our 
>.r,-,i=P  There  was  to  us  always  an  unfathomable  mystery  in  the  closing  of  their  acquaintance.  But  a  marriage  with 
John  Forster  could  have  led  to  no  result  more  happy  than  did  that  of  her  marriage  with  McLean.  Ihey  were 
utterly  unsuited— the  one  to  the  other.  '■ 


L^TITIA   ELIZABETH  LANDON. 


267 


history  !  "  Dreary,"  beset  with  "  privations,"  "  disappointments,"  "  unkindnesses," 
and  "  harassments,"  "  ever  struggling  against  absolute  poverty,"  these  are  her  own 
words  in  mouri^ful  application  to  herself. 

Endowed  by  nature  with  the  perilous  gift  of 
genius,  she  was,  while  yet  a  child,  thrown  entirely 
on  her  own  resources,  altogether  without  a  guide 
by  which  such  a  mind  could  be  directed,  or  such  a 
character  be  wisely  formed.  She  was  not  more 
than  fifteen  years  old  when  the  letters  "  L.  E.  L.," 
appended  to  some  verses  in  the  'Literary  Gazette, 
riveted  public  attention  ;  and  when  it  became  known 
that  the  author  was  scarcely  in  her  teens,  a  full 
gush  of  popularity  burst  upon  her,  which  might 
have  turned  older  heads  and  steadier  dispositions. 
As  she  wrote — 

"  I  -well  remember  how  I  flung  myself. 
Like  a  young  goddess,  on  a  purple  cloud 
Of  light  and  odour. 
And  I — I  felt  immortal,  for  my  brain 
Was  drunk  and  mad  with  its  first  draught  of  fame." 

She  became  a  "  lion,"  courted  and  flattered,  and 
feted  ;  yet  never  was  she  misled  by  the  notion  that 
popularity  is  happiness,  or  lip-service  the  true 
homage  of  the  heart. 

She  was  residing  at  Old  Brompton  when  her 
first  poem  appeared  in  the  Lite^'ciry  Gazette,  which 
Mr.  Jerdan  had  not  long  previously  established. 
In  this  age  of  u'on,  when  poetry  is,  in  the  estima- 
tion of  publishers,  "  a  drug,"  it  would  be  difficult 
to  conceive  the  enthusiasm  excited  by  the  magical 
three  letters  appended  to  the  poems  whenever  they 
appeared.  Mr.  Jerdan  was  a  near  neighbour  of  the 
Landons,  and  he  thus  refers  to  their  residence  at 
Old  Brompton : — "  My  cottage  overlooked  the 
mansion  and  grounds  of  Mr.  Landon,  the  father 
of  '  L.  E.  L.,'  at  Old  Brompton,  a  narrow  lane  only 
dividing  our  residences.  My  first  recollection  of 
the  future  poetess  is  that  of  a  plump  girl,  grown 
enough  to  be  almost  mistaken  for  a  woman,  bowl- 
ing a  hoop  round  the  walks,  with  a  hoop-stick  in 
one  hand,  and  a  book  in  the  other,  reading  as  she 
ran,  and,  as  well  as  she  could  manage,  taking  both 
exercise  and  instruction  at  the  same  time."  ^ 

Although   the  house    in    which   she   resided   was  recently  taken  down,  I  have 
thought  it  desirable  to  procure  a  drawing  of  it,  which  I  have  engraved. 

When  visiting  her  relatives  at  "  Aberford,  near  Witherby,"  by  whom  she  was 


268 


MEMORIES. 


received  with  affectionate  attention,  she  thus  playfully  wrote,  in  one  of  her  letters  to 
Mrs.  Hall  : — "  The  beauty  of  this  part  of  the  country  lying  in  its  woods,  what  is  it 
without  foliage  ? — 

"  It  is  folly  to  dream  of  a  bower  of  green 
When  tliere  is  not  a  leaf  on  a  tree  !  " 

"  Aberford,  near  Witherby. 

"  Saturday. 
"The  winter  is  very  severe — even  now  the  garden  is  partially  covered  with  snow.     However, 
in  the  more  sunshiny  patches  snowdrops  and  pink  and  hlue  liepaticas  are  beginning  to  peep  out, 
and  the  greenhouse  gives  handsome  promise  of  hyacinths,  &c. 


^ 


MISS  landon's  .residence  at  old  brompton. 

"Partly  from  the  severity  of  the  weather,  partly  because  it  is  the  custom  so  to  do,  we  live  very 
much  to  ourselves.  But  the  family  circle  is  in  itself  large  and  cheerful,  and  I  do  not  know  a  more 
aa-reeable  woman  than  my  aunt.  One  of  my  cousins  sings  exquisitely.  She  was  singmg  last  ni^ht 
what  I  always  call  your  "song-'  I  come  from  a  happy  land.'  She  is  a  very  pretty  creature,  too 
and  looks  exceedingly  graceful  at  the  harp.  The  younger  ones  are  sadly  distressed  at  my  want 
of  accomplishments  When  I  first  arrived,  Julia  and  Isabel  began  to  cross-question  me  :  'Can  you 
navP'  'No'  'Can  you  sing?'  'No.'  '  Can  vou  speak  Italian  ? '  'No.'  '  Can  you  draw  ?_'  '^o 
At  last  thev  came  down  to  '  Can  you  write  and  read  ? '  Here  I  was  able  to  answer,  to  their  great 
relief,  'Yes,  a  little.'     I  believe  Julia,  in  the  first  warmth  of  cousinly  affection,  was  going  to  ofier 

*°  *fa  We  h^Vt^NW^'leasant visit,  and  received  extreme  kindness;  but  I  am  as  constant  as  ever 
to  London.  I  would  not  take  five  thonsand  a  year  to  settle  down  in  the  co.n>try.  I  miss  the  new 
books,  the  new  faces,  the  new  subjects  of  conversation,  and  I  miss  very  much  the  old  iriends  I  have 
left  behind.  „  -^^^^  ^,^^^  ^^,^j^,  affectionate 

"L.  E.  Landon," 


LJETITIA   ELIZABETH  LANDON. 


She  was  born  on  the  14tli  of  August,  1802,  at  Hans  Place,  Chelsea,  where  her 
father,  a  junior  partner  m  the  house  of  Adair,  army  agents,  then  resided  ;  and  in  that 
locality,  with  few  brief  intervals,  the  whole  of  her  life  was  passed.  When  we  first 
knew  her  in  1825  she  lived  with  her  grandmother  in  Sloane  Street ;  subsequently 
she  became  a  boarder  in  the  school  establishment  of  the  Misses  Lance,  at  No.  22, 
Hans  Place,  the  house  in  which  she  had  been  a  pupil  when  but  six  years  old  ;  and 
here  she  was  residing  up  to  within  a  few  months  of  her  marriage,  when,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  retirement  of  the  Misses  Lance,  she  became  an  inmate  in  the  family  of 
Mrs.  Sheddon  at  Upper  Berkeley  Street,  Connaught  Square. 

In  answer  to  my  request  that  she  would  give  me  some  particulars  of  her  life's 
history,  I  received  from  her  the  following  letter  : — 

"  My  deak  Mr.  Hall, 

"  In  endeavouring  to  give  you  some  idea  of  my  life,  I  find  that  a  few  words  will  com- 
prise its  events,  so  much  has  one  year  repeated  the  other.  My  childhood  was  passed  at  Trevor 
Park,  and  is  the  basis  of  the  last  tale  in  'Traits  and  Trials.'  I  cannot  remember  the  time  when 
composition  in  some  shape  or  other  was  not  a  habit.  I  used  to  invent  long  stories,  which  I  was  only 
too  glad  if  I  could  get  my  mother  to  hear.  These  soon  took  a  metrical  form  ;  and  I  used  to  walk 
about  the  grounds',  and  lie  awake  half  the  night,  reciting  my  verses  aloud. 

"  The  realities  of  life  began  with  me  at  a  very  earlj'  period  of  existence.  The  embarrassed 
state  of  my  father's  circumstances  made  us  live  in  great  seclusion  at  Old  Brompton,  and  also  led  to 
a  thousand  projects  for  their  amelioration — among  others,  literature  seemed  the  resource,  which  it 
only  seems  to  youth  and  inexperience.  Witb  what  wonder  in  after  years  we  look  back  on  how  we 
used  to  believe  and  expect!  My  course  of  reading  had  been  very  desultory — principally  history 
and  travels,  and  I  especially  remember  a  Life  of  Petrnrch  which  perhaps  first  threw  round  Italy 
that  ideal  charm  it  has  always  retained  in  my  eyes.  The  scene  of  his  being  crowned  at  the  Capitol 
was  always  present  to  my  mind,  and  gave  me  the  most  picturesque  notion  of  the  glory  of  poetry. 
The  Odyssey  was  another  work  which  I  was  never  tired  of  reading.  It  was  the  same  sort  of 
pleasure  tbat  I  derived  from  reading  Scott — an  excitement,  a  keener  sense  of  existence,  and  a 
passionate  desire  of  action.  Were  I  to  be  afked  the  writer  who  has  exercised  the  greatest  influence 
in  forming  my  style,  I  should  say — Walter  Scott. 

"The  desire  of  publication  is  inseparable  from  composition,  and  some  of  my  MSS.  were  sent  to 
the  editor  of  the  Literary  Gazette^  who  spoke  highly  of  their  promise,  though  at  first  he  doubted 
who  was  the  author.  He  would  not  believe  that  they  were  written  by  the  child  whom  he  saw 
playing  with  his  own  children.  The  '  Improvisatrice '  met  with  the  usual  difiiculties  attendant  on 
a  first  attempt.  It  was  refused  by  every  publisher  in  London.  Mr.  Murray  said  peers  only 
should  write  poetry  ;  Longmans  would  not  hear  of  it ;  Colburn  declared  poetry  was  quite  out  of  his 
way;  and  for  months  it  remained  unpublished.  In  the  meantime,  the  fugitive  poems  with  my 
signature,  L.  E.  L.,  had  attracted  much  attention  in  the  Literary  Gazette,  and  Messrs.  Hurst  and 
Robinson  agreed  to  publish  it.  I  may  without  vanity  say  that  its  success  was  complete,  and  I 
have  never  since  found  any  publishing  obstacles.  Messrs.  Hurst  and  Robinson  gave  me  £300  for 
the  'Improvisatrice,'  and  £600  for  the  '  Troubadour.'  I  mention  this  as  it  was  asserted  in  some  of 
the  newspapers  that  I  have  been  a  loser  by  their  failure.  Such  was  not  the  case.  And  it  would 
give  me  sincere  pleasure  to  express  the  gratitude  I  still  feel  for  their  kind  and  gentlemanlike  con- 
duct towards  me.  Indeed,  1  have  always  met  with  the  same  treatment  from  every  publisher  with 
whom  I  have  been  connected.  I  certainly  am  not  one  of  the  authors  who  complain  of  the  book- 
sellers. My  whole  life  has  been  one  of  constant  labour.  My  contributions  to  various  periodicals 
—whether  tales,  poetry,  or  ciiticism — amount  to  far  more  than  my  published  volumes.  I  have  been 
urged  to  this  by  the  necessity  of  aiding  those  nearly  connected  with  me,  whom  my  father's  death 
left  entirely  destitute.  I  have  lived  almost  wholly  in  London  ;  and  though  very  susceptible  to  the 
impressions  produced  by  the  beauty  of  the  country,  certainly  never  felt  at  home  but  on  the  pave- 
ment. I  write  poetry  with  more  ease  than  I  do  prose,  and  with  far  greater  rapidity.  In  prose  I 
oiten  stop  and  hesitate  for  a  word  ;  in  poetry  never.  Poetry  always  carries  me  out  of  myself.  I 
Ibrget  everything  in  the  world  but  the  subject  which  has  interested  my  imagination.  It  is  the 
most  subtle  and  interesting  of  pleasures,  but,  like  all  pleasures,  it  is  dearly  bought ;  it  is  always 
succeeded  by  extreme  depression  of  spirits,  and  an  overpowering  sense  of  bodily  fatigue. 

"  To  conclude.  Mine  has  been  a  successful  career,  and  I  hope  I  am  earnestly  grateful  for  the 
encouragement  I  have  received,  and  the  friends  I  have  made.     But  my  life  has  convinced  me  that 


270  MEMORIES. 

a  public  career  must  be  a  painful  one  to  a  woman.     The  envy  and  the  notoriety  carry  with  them  a 
bitterness  which  predominates  over  the  praise. 

"  I  am  ashamed  of  all  this  long  detail  about  myself;  but  it  was  your  wish.  Anything  further 
that  I  can  supply  do  ask  and  have. 

"Yours  most  truly, 

"L.  E.  Landon." 

Her  grandmother's  grave  was,  if  I  recollect  rightly,  the  third  opened  in  the 
graveyard  of  Holy  Trinity,  Brompton.  Her  lines  on  the  "  new"  churchyard  will  be 
remembered.  I  attended  the  old  lady's  funeral,  Mrs.  Hall  having  received  from  Miss 
Landon  this  letter  : — 

"  I  have  had  time  to  recover  the  first  shock,  and  it  was  great  weakness  to  feel  so  sorry,  though 
even  now  I  do  not  like  to  think  of  her  very  sudden  death.  I  am  thankful  for  its  giving.her  so 
little  confinement  or  pain.  She  had  never  known  illness,  and  would  have  borne  it  impatiently 
— a  great  addition  to  suffering.  I  am  so  very  grateful  to  Mr.  Hall,  for  I  really  did  not  know 
what  to  do.  Her  funeral  is  fixed  for  Friday  ;  the  hour  will  be  arranged  to  his  and  Mr.  Jerdan's 
convenience." 

Mrs.  Hall  supplies  me  with  the  following  particulars  concerning  her  early  acquain- 
tance and  intercourse  with  Laetitia  Landon  : — 

"My  husband  had  been  introduced  to  a  certain  little  Miss  Spence,  who,  on  the 
strength  of  having  written  something  about  the  Highlands,  was  decidedly  'blue,'  when 
'  blue '  was  by  no  means  so  general  a  colour  as  it  is  at  present.  She  had  a  lodging  of 
two  rooms  in  Great  Quebec  Street,  and  *  patronised'  young  litterateur's,  inviting  them  to 
her  '  humble  abode,'  where'"tea  was  made  in  the  bed-room,  and  where  it  was  whispered 
the  butter  was  kept  cool  in  the  wash-hand  basin  !  There  were  '  lots '  of  such-like 
small  scandals  about  poor  little  Miss  Spence's  '  humble  abode; '  still  people  liked  to  go, 
and  my  husband  was  invited,  with  a  sort  of  apology  for  poor  me,  who,  never  having 
published  anything  at  that  time,  was  considered  ineligible  :  it  was  '  a  rule.' 

"  Of  course  I  had  an  account  of  the  party  when  Mr.  Hall  came  home.  I  coveted 
to  know  who  was  there,  and  what  everybody  had  worn  and  said.  I  was  told  that 
Lady  Caroline  Lamb  had  been  present,  enveloped  in  the  folds  of  an  ermine  cloak 
which  she  called  a  '  cat-skin,'  and  that  she  talked  a  great  deal  about  a  periodical  she 
wished  to  get  up,  to  be  called  the  Tabby's  Magazine ;  and  that  with  her  was  an 
exceedingly  haughty,  brilliant,  and  beautiful  girl,  Rosina  Wheeler,  since  well  known, 
as  Lady  Lytton,  and  who  sat  rather  impatiently  at  the  feet  of  her  eccentric  '  Gamaliel.' 
Miss  Emma  Roberts  was  one  of  the  favoured  ladies  ;  and  Miss  Spence,  who,  like  all 
*  Leo-hunters,'  delighted  in  novelty,  had  just  caught  the  author  of  '  The  Mummy,' 
Jane  Webb,  who  was  as  gentle  and  unpretending  then  as  she  was  in  after  years, 
when,  laying  aside  romance  for  reality,  she  became  the  great  helper  of  her  husband, 
Mr.  Loudon,  in  his  laborious  and  valuable  works.  When  I  heard  Miss  Benger  was 
there  in  her  historic  turban,  I  thought  it  fortunate  that  I  had  remained  at  home.  I 
had  always  a  terror  of  tall,  commanding  women,  who  blink  down  upon  you,  and  have 
the  unmistakable  air  about  them  of  *  Behold  me  !  have  I  not  pronounced  sentence 
upon  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  set  my  mark  on  the  Queen  of  Scots  ? '  Still  I  quite 
appreciated  the  delight  of  meeting  under  the  same  roof  so  many  celebrities,  and  was 
cross-questioning  my  husband,  when  he  said,  '  But  there  was  one  lady  there  on  whom 
I  promised  you  should  call  to-morrow.' 


^ 


LyETITIA   ELIZABETH  LANDON.  271 

"  Imagine  my  mingled  delight  and  dismay :  delight  at  the  bare  idea  of  seeing  lier 
who  must  be  well-nigh  suffocated  with  the  perfume  of  her  own  '  Golden  Violet,'  the 
idol  of  my  imagination  ;  dismay — for  what  should  I  say  to  her  ?  what  would  she  say 
to  me  ? 

"  And  now  I  must  look  back,  back  to  the  '  long  ago,'  the  long,  long  ago  ! 

"I  can  hardly  realise  the  sweep  of  years  that  has  gone  over  so  many  who  have 
become  near  and  dear  to  us  since  I  first  saw  Lsetitia  Landon — in  her  grandmother's 
modest  lodging  in  Sloane  Street — a  bright-eyed,  sparkling,  restless  little  girl,  in  a 
pink  gingham  frock,  grafting  clever  things  on  common-place  nothings,  froUicking  from 
subject  to  subject  with  the  playfulness  of  a  spoiled  child,  her  dark  hair  put  back  from 
her  low,  yet  broad,  forehead,  only  a  little  above  the  most  beautiful  eyebrows  a  painter 
could  picture,  and  falling  in  curls  around  her  slender  throat.  We  were  nearly  the 
same  age,  but  I  had  been  a  year  married,  and  if  I  had  not  supported  myself  on 
my  dignity  as  a  matron,  should  have  been  more  than  nervous  on  my  first  intro- 
duction to  a  '  living  poet,'  though  the  poet  was  so  different  from  what  I  had  imagined. 
Her  movements  were  as  rapid  as  those  of  a  squirrel.  I  wondered  how  any  one  so 
quick  could  be  so  graceful.  She  had  been  making  a  cap  for  her  grandmother,  and 
would  insist  upon  the  old  lady's  putting  it  on,  that  I  might  see  '  how  pretty  it  was.' 
To  this,  '  grandmamma  '  (Mrs.  Bishop)  objected.  She  '  couldn't,'  and  she  '  wouldn't' 
try  it  on  ;  '  how  could  Lsetitia  be  so  silly  ?'  And  then  the  author  of  the  '  Golden 
Violet '  put  the  great,  be-flowered,  be-ribboned  thing  on  her  own  dainty  little  head 
with  a  grave  look — like  a  cloud  on  a  rose — and,  folding  her  pretty  little  hands  over 
her  pink  frock,  made  what  she  called  a  '  Sir  Roger  de  Coverly'  curtsy,  skipping  back- 
wards into  the  bed-room  ;  and  rushing  in  again,  having  deposited  out  of  sight  the 
cap  she  was  so  proud  of  constructing,  she  took  my  hands  in  hers,  and  asked  me  *  if 
we  should  be  friends.'  '  Friends  ! '  I  do  not  think  that  during  the  long  intimacy  that 
followed  the  childlike  meeting,  extending  from  the  year  1825  to  her  leaving  England 
in  1838,  during  which  time  I  saw  her  nearly  every  day,  and  certainly  every  week — I 
do  not  think  she  ever  loved  me  as  I  loved  her  ;  how  could  she  ?  But  I  was  proud  of 
the  confidence  and  regard  she  bestowed  on  me,  and  would  have  given  half  my  own 
happiness  to  have  sheltered  her  from  the  envy  and  evil  that  embittered  the  spring  and 
summer-time  of  her  blighted  life.  It  always  seemed  to  me  impossible  not  to  love  her, 
not  to  cherish  her.  Perhaps  the  greatest  magic  she  exercised  was,  that  after  the  first 
rush  of  remembrance  of  that  wonderful  young  woman's  writings  had  subsided,  she 
rendered  you  completely  oblivious  of  what  she  had  done,  by  the  irresistible  charm  of 
what  she  was.  You  forgot  all  about  her  books  ;  you  only  felt  the  intense  delight  of 
life  with  her.  She  was  penetrating,  yet  thoroughly  sympathetic,  and  entered  into 
your  feelings  so  entirely,  that  you  wondered  how  the  little  '  witch  '  could  read  you  so 
readily  and  so  rightly ;  and  if,  now  and  then,  you  were  startled,  perhaps  dismayed, 
by  her  wit — it  was  but  as  the  prick  of  a  diamond  arrow.  Words  and  thoughts  that 
she  flung  hither  and  thither,  without  design  or  intent  beyond  the  amusement  of  the 
moment,  come  to  me  still  with  a  mingled  thrill  of  pleasure  and  pain  that  I  cannot 
describe,  and  which  my  most  friendly  readers  could  not  understand,  because  they  did 
not  know  her.     When  I  knew  her  first,  she  certainly  looked  much  younger  than  she 


MEMORIES. 


1 


was.  When  we  talked  of  ages,  which  we  did  the  first  day,  I  found  it  difficult  to 
believe  she  was  more  than  seventeen — she  was  so  slight,  so  fragile,  so  girlish  in  her 
gestures  and  manners.  In  after  days  I  often  wondered  how  she  seemed  so  graceful ; 
her  neck  was  short,  her  shoulders  high ;  you  saw  those  defects  at  the  first  glance, 
just  as  you  did  that  her  nose  was  retrousse,  and  that  she  was  '  under  hung,'  which 
ought  to  have  spoiled  the  expression  of  her  mouth  ;  yet  it  did  not.  You  saw  all  this 
at  once,  but  you  never  thought  about  it  after  the  first  five  minutes.  Her  complexion 
was  clear,  her  hair  dark  and  silken,  and  the  lashes  that  sheltered  her  grey  eyes  long, 
and  slightly  upturned  ;  her  voice  was  inexpressibly  sweet  and  modulated,  but  there 
was  a  melancholy  cadence  in  it,  a  '  fall '  so  full  of  sorrow,  that  I  often  looked  to  see 
if  tears  were  coming.  No — the  smile  and  eyes  were  beaming  in  perfect  harmony  ; 
yet  it  was  next  to  impossible  to  believe  in  her  happiness,  with  the  memory  of  that 
cadence  still  in  the  ear.  Like  all  the  earnest  workers  I  have  known  intimately,  she 
had  a  double  existence — an  inner  and  an  outer  life.  Many  times  when  I  have  wit- 
nessed her  suffering  either  from  spasmodic  attacks,  to  which  she  was  continually 
liable,  or  from  the  necessity  for  work  to  provide  for  the  comforts  and  luxuries  of  those 
who  never  spared  her,  I  have  seen  her  cast,  as  it  were,  her  natural  self  away,  enter 
the  long,  narrow,  and  poorly-furnished  room  that  opened  on  the  garden  at  Hans 
Place,  and  flash  upon  a  morning  visitor  as  if  she  had  not  a  pain  or  a  care  in  the  world  ; 
dazzling  the  senses,  and  captivating  the  aff'ections  of  some  new  acquaintance,  as  she 
had  done  mine,  and  sending  him  or  her  away  believing  in  the  reality  of  her  happiness, 
and  fully  convinced  that  the  melancholy  that  breathed  through  her  poems  was  assumed 
— that,  in  fact,  her  true  nature  was  buoyant  and  joyous  as  that  of  a  lark  singing 
between  earth  and  heaven.  If  they  could  but  have  seen  how  the  cloud  settled  down 
on  that  beaming  face ;  if  they  had  but  heard  the  deep-drawn  sigh  of  relief  that  the 
by-play  was  played  out,  and  noted  the  languid  step  with  which  she  mounted  to  her 
attic,  and  gathered  her  young  limbs  on  the  common  seat,  opposite  the  common  table 
whereon  she  worked,  they  would  have  arrived  at  a  directly  opposite,  and  a  too  true, 
conclusion — that  the  melancholy  was  real,  the  mirth  assumed. 

''  My  second  visit  to  her  was  after  she  had  left  her  grandmother,  and  was  residing 
at  22,  Hans  Place.  Miss  Emma  Roberts*'  and  her  sister,  at  that  time,  boarded  also 
at  Miss  Lance's  school,  and  Miss  Landon  found  there  a  room  at  the  top  of  the  house, 
where  she  could  have  the  quiet  and  the  seclusion  her  labour  required,  and  which  she 
could  not  have  had  with  her  kind-natured  but  restless  grandmother.  She  never  could 
understand  how  '  speaking  one  word  to  Letty,'  just  one  word,  and  not  keeping  her 
five  minutes  away  from  that  desk,  where  she  would  certainly  grow  '  humped '  or 
'  crooked,'  could  interfere  with  her  work.  She  was  one  of  those  stolid  persons,  the 
bane  of  authors,  who  think  nothing  of  the  lost  idea,  and  the  unravelling  of  the  web, 
when  a  train  of  thought  is  broken  by  the  '  only  one  word,'  '  only  a  moment,'  which 
scatters  thoughts  to  the  wmd — thoughts  that  can  no  more  be  called  home  than  the 
thistle-down  that  is  carried  away  by  a  passing  breeze. 


*  Miss  Emma  Roberts,  whose  name  is  now  forgotten,  was  the  author  of  some  works  of  merit.  She  accompanied 
her  sister  and  her  sister's  husband  to  India,  and  died  there. 


LyETITIA   ELIZABETH  LANDON. 


273 


"  She  continued  to  reside  in  that  unostentatious  home,  obedient  to  the  '  rules  of 
the  school'  as  the  youngest  pupil,  dining  with  the  children  at  their  early  hour,  and 
returning  to  her  sanctuary,  whence  she  sent  forth,  rapidly  and  continuously,  works 
that  won  for  her  the  adoration  of  the  young  and  the  admiration  of  the  old.  But 
though  she  ceased  to  reside  with  her  grandmother,  she  was  most  devoted  in  her 
attentions  to  her  aged  relative,  and  trimmed  her  caps  and  bonnets,  and  '  quilled '  her 
frills,  as  usual.  I  have  seen  the  old  lady's  '  borders'  and  ribbons  mingled  with  pages 
of  manuscript,  and  known  her  to  put  aside  a  poem  to  '  settle  up  '  grandmamma's  cap 
for  Sunday.    These  were  the  minor  duties  in  which  she  indulged,  but  her  grandmother 


MISS   LANDON  S  BESIDENCB  AT   HANS   PLACK. 


owed  the  greater  part,  if  not  the  entire,  of  her  comforts  to  the  generous  and  unselfish 
nature  of  that  gifted  girl.  Her  mother  I  never  saw.  Morally  right  in  all  her  arrange- 
ments, she  was  mentally  wrong,  and  the  darling  poet  of  the  pubHc  had  no  lo\ing 
sympathy,  no  tender  care  from  the  author  of  her  being.  She  had  endured  the  wrongs 
of  a  neglected  childhood,  and  but  for  the  attachment  of  her  grandmother  she  would 
have  known  '  next  to  nothing '  of  the  love  of  motherhood.  Thus  she  was  left  alone 
with  her  genius ;  for  admiration,  however  grateful  to  a  woman's  senses,  never  yet 
filled  a  woman's  heart. 

"  When  I  first  knew  her,  and  for  some  time  after,  she  was  childishly  untidy  and 
negligent  in  her  dress.     Her  '  frocks  '  were  tossed  on,  as  if  buttons  and  strings  were 

T 


encumbrances ;  one  sleeve  off  the  shoulder,  the  other  on,  and  her  soft,  silky  hair 
brushed  '  anyhow.'  But  Emma  Eoberts,  whose  dress  was  always  in  '  good  taste,' 
determined  on  her  reformation,  and  gradually  the  young  poet,  as  she  expressed  it, 
'  did  not  know  herself.'  I  use  the  word  '  young '  because  she  was  so  wonderfully 
youthful  in  appearance,  and  positively  as  she  grew  older  looked  younger — her  dehcate 
complexion,  the  transparent  tenderness  of  her  skin,  and  the  playful  expression  of  her 
childlike  features  adding  to  the  deception." 

In  the  zenith  of  her  fame,  and  towards  the  terrible  close  of  her  life,  the  personal 
appearance  of  Miss  Landon  was  highly  attractive.  Though  small  of  stature,  her  form 
was  remarkably  graceful,  and  in  society,  at  all  events,  she  paid  to  dress  the  attention 
that  literary  women  too  frequently  neglect.  This  is  Mrs.  Hall's  portrait  of  her  at  a 
later  period  than  the  sketch  I  have  given : — 

"  It  was  strange  to  watch  the  many  shades  of  varied  feeling  that  passed  across  her 
countenance  even  in  an  hour.  I  can  see  her  now — her  dark  silken  hair  braided  back 
over  a  small,  but  what  phrenologists  would  call  a  well-developed,  head ;  her  forehead 
full  and  open,  but  the  hair  grew  low  upon  it ;  the  eyebrow  perfect  in  arch  and  form  ; 
the  eyes  round,  soft,  or  flashing,  grey,  well  formed,  and  beautifully  set,  the  lashes 
long  and  black,  the  under  lashes  turning  down  with  a  delicate  curve,  and  forming  a 
soft  relief  upon  the  tint  of  her  cheek,  which,  when  she  enjoyed  good  health,  was 
bright  and  blushing.  Her  complexion  was  delicately  fair ;  her  skin  soft  and  trans- 
parent;  her  nose  small  {retrousse),  the  nostril  well  defined,  slightly  curved,  but 
capable  of  a  scornful  expression,  which  she  did  not  appear  to  have  the  power  of 
repressing,  even  though  she  gave  her  thoughts  no  words,  when  any  mean  or  des- 
picable action  was  alluded  to.  It  would  be  difficult  to  describe  her  mouth ;  it  was 
neither  flat  nor  pouting,  neither  large  nor  small;  the  under  jaw  projected  a  little 
beyond  the  upper.  Her  smile  was  deliciously  animated ;  her  teeth  white,  small,  and 
even ;  and  her  voice  and  laugh  soft,  low,  and  musical.  H^er  ears  were  of  peculiar 
beauty,  and  all  who  study  the  beauty  of  the  human  head  know  that  the  ear  is  either 
very  pleasing  to  look  on,  or  much  the  contrary :  hers  were  small,  and  of  a  delicate 
hue.  Her  hands  and  feet  were  even  smaller  than  her  sylph-like  figure  would  have 
led  one  to  expect.  She  would  have  been  of  perfect  symmetry  but  that  her  shoulders 
were  rather  '  high.'  Her  movements,  when  not  excited  by  animated  conversation, 
were  graceful  and  ladylike,  but  when  excited  they  became  sudden  and  almost  abrupt." 

There  were  few  portraits  of  Miss  Landon  painted,  yet  she  was  acquainted  with 
many  artists,  and  had  intense  love  of  art.  Witness  her  "  Subjects  for  Pictures  "  in 
the  Neiv  Monthly  Magazine,  written  at  my  suggestion.  Her  friend  Maclise  painted 
her  three  or  four  times  :  I  know  of  none  others,  except  that  by  Pickersgill.  It  is 
engraved  with  this  Memory.  I  always  thought  it  the  most  like  her,  but  it  is  not 
flattering.  Though  quite  unskilled  in  the  language  of  the  schools,  she  had  a  fine 
feeling  for 

"  The  art  that  can  immortalise." 

I  remember  her  once  speaking  of  artists  in  her  usual  animated  and  pictorial  manner, 
and   concluded  by   saying,  "  they  deserved  all  honour — they  idealised  humanity." 


LMTITIA    ELIZABETH  LANDON.  275 

What  a  string  of  pearls  I  migM  have  gathered,  had  I  noted  down  the  thoughts  that 
fell  in  sayings  from  her  lips  ! 

She  cannot  be  described  as  handsome,  but  at  times  her  face  became  absolutely 
beautiful,  when  its  expression  was  animated  by  thought,  and  the  language  of  warm 
feeling,  or  of  earnest  sympathy,  fell  from  her  eloquent  lips.  Then  her  eyes  too  would 
speak ;  I  have  seen  them  many  a  time  sparkling  with  indignation  and  dissolved  in 
tears. 

In  society  she  was  brilliant,  without  by  any  means  being 

"  That  dangerous  thing,  a  female  wit." 

Her  language  was  often  epigrammatic,  and  her  "  sayings  "  would  have  been  worth 
collecting  and  preserving  for  their  point  and  purpose.  She  was  usually  full  of 
animation,  and  never  failed  to  deal  "  well "  with  any  subject  on  which  she  conversed. 
Those  who  saw  her  at  such  times  would  have  thought  that  gaiety  was  her  prevailing 
characteristic  ;  it  was  not  so.  Frequently  I  have  seen  her  sigh  heavily  in  apparently 
her  merriest  moments,  and  have  quoted  to  myself  these  lines, — 

"  Chide  not  her  mirth  who  was  sad  yesterday, 
And  may  be  so  to-morrow." 

She  first  met  the  Ettrick  Shepherd  at  our  house.  When  Hogg  was  presented  to 
her,  he  looked  earnestly  down  at  her  for  perhaps  half  a  minute,  and  then  exclaimed, 
in  a  rich  manly  "  Scottish  "  voice,  "  Eh,  I  didna  think  ye'd  been  sae  bonnie  !  I've 
said  many  hard  things  aboot  ye.  I'll  do  sae  nae  mair.  I  didna  think  ye'd  been  sae 
bonnie  !"  Mrs.  Opie,  who  also  first  saw  her  at  our  house,  paid  her  a  questionable 
compliment,  saying  she  was  the  prettiest  butterfly  she  had  ever  seen;  and  I  remember 
the  staid  Quakeress  shaking  her  finger  at  the  young  poetess,  and  saying,  "  What  thou 
art  saying  thou  dost  not  mean  !  "  Miss  Jewsbury  (the  much  elder  sister  of  the 
accomplished  authoress,  Greraldine),  whose  fate  somewhat  resembled  her  own,  said  of 
her,  "  She  was  a  gay  and  gifted  thing,"  but  Miss  Jewsbury  knew  her  only  "in  the 
throng."  Her  toils  were  too  intense,  the  demands  upon  her  resources  too  heavy : 
there  was  a  perj)etual  necessity  for  labour  to  answer  the  needs  of  others,  not  her 
own,  for  her  wants  were  limited  ;  her  own  expenses  little  more  than  those  she  paid 
for  her  moderate  board  at  "  a  school;"  and  for  dress,  though  no  doubt  she  had  a 
woman's  longing  in  that  way,  she  said,  and  we  could  well  believe  her,  she  had 
seldom  two  silk  gowns  of  her  own.*  But  "  gay  "  the  troubles  and  anxieties  of  life 
would  not  let  her  be ;  "  gay"  she  was  forbidden  to  be  by  the  necessity  of  daily  toil, 
ill  or  in  health ;  more  than  that,  her  nature  inclined  her  to  despondency — almost  a 
necessity  of  the  poetic  temperament.  Her  closer  friends  knew  that  the  sparkle  was 
often  unreal : — 

"  The  cheek  may  be  tinged  with  a  warm  sunny  smile, 
Though  the  cold  heart  to  ruin  runs  darkly  the  whUe." 

*  Mrs.  Hall  remembers  once  meeting  her  coming  out  of  Youngman's  shop,  in  Sloane  Street,  and  walking  home 
with  her.  "I  have  been,"  she  said,  "  to  buy  a  pair  of  gloves,  the  only  money  spent  on  myself  out  of  the  £300  I 
received  for  •  Romance  and  Eeality.' "  That  same  day  she  spoke  of  having  lived  in  Sloane  Street  when  a  child. 
Her  mother's  menage  must  have  been  curiously  conducted  :— "  On  Sundays  my  brother  and  myself  were  often  left 
alone  in  the  house,  with  one  servant,  who  always  went  out,  locking  us  in,  and  we  two  children  used  to  sit  at  the 
open  parlour- window,  to  catch  the  smell  of  the  one-o'clock  dinners  that  went  past  from  the  bakehouse,  well  knowing 
that  no  dinner  awaited  us." 

T    2 


And  beyond  doubt,  in  later  years,  there  was  "  a  fatal  remembrance  "  that  threw 

"  Its  dark  shade  alike  o'er  her  joys  and  her  woes." 

I  have  rarely  known  a  woman  so  entirely  fascinating  as  Miss  Landon.  This  arose 
mainly  from  her  large  sympathy  ;  she  was  playful  with  the  young,  sedate  with  the 
old,  and  considerate  and  reflective  with  the  middle-aged ;  she  could  be  tender,  and 
she  could  be  severe,  prosaic,  or  practical,  and  essentially  of  and  with  whatever  party 
she  chanced  to  be  among.  I  remember  this  faculty  once  receiving  an  illustration. 
She  was  taking  lessons  in  riding,  and  had  so  much  pleased  the  riding-master,  that  at 
parting  he  complimented  her  by  saying,  "  Well,  madam,  we  are  all  born  with  a  genius 
for  something,  and  yours  is  for  horsemanship." 

Her  industry  was  absolutely  wonderful  :  she  was  perpetually  at  work,  although 
often,  nay,  generally,  with  little  of  physical  strength,  and  sometimes  utterly  prostrated 
by  illness.  Yet  the  work  must  be  done.  Her  poems  and  prose  were  usually  for 
periodical  publications,  and  a  given  day  of  the  month  it  was  impossible  to  postpone. 
She  was  also  a  fertile  correspondent :  we  have  had  hundreds  of  her  letters  ;  many  of 
them  we  have  now.  She  found  time  to  show  how  deep  an  interest  she  took  in  all 
that  concerned  those  she  liked  or  loved.  Her  entirely  unselfish  nature  was  known, 
by  pleasant  experience,  to  all  friends,  admirers,  or  acquaintances  with  whom  she  came 
in  contact,  either  in  the  way  of  business  or  of  pleasure. 

She  married  Mr.  McLean,  then  Governor  of  the  Gold  Coast,* — a  man  who 
neither  knew,  felt,  nor  estimated  her  value.  He  wedded  her,  I  am  sure,  only 
because  he  was  vain  of  her  celebrity  ;  and  she  him,  because  he  enabled  her  to  change 
her  name,  and  to  remove  from  that  society  in  which,  just  then,  the  old  and  infamous 
slander  had  been  revived.  There  was,  in  this  case,  no  love,  no  esteem,  no  respect,  and 
there  could  have  been  no  discharge  of  duty  that  was  not  thankless  and  irksome. f 

The  Poet  Laureate  has  written  : — 

"  That  a  lie  which  is  half  a  truth  is  ever  the  blackest  of  lies  ; 
That  a  lie  which  is  all  a  lie  may  be  met  and  fought  with  outright ; 
But  a  lie  which  is  part  a  truth  is  a  harder  matter  to  fight." 

Undoubtedly  the  wicked  slander  that  associated  the  name  of  Maginn  with  that  of 
L.  E.  L.  had  some  foundation.  She  had  written  to  that  very  worthless  person  a 
letter,  or  letters,  containing  expressions  which  she  ought  not  to  have  penned.  They 
sufficed  to  arouse  the  ire  of  a  jealous  woman,  and  led  to  much  misery.  To  have  seen, 
much  less  to  have  known  Maginn,  would  have  been  to  refute  the  calumny.  But  the 
worst  accusation  that  could  justly  have  been  urged  against  her  was  imprudence. 

Mrs.  Hall,  having  heard  this  slander,  thought  herself  bound  to  write  to  Miss 
Landon  on  the  subject.  She  did  so,  and  this  was  her.  reply.  As  thirty  years 
have  gone  since  it  was  written,  and  as  the  parties  chiefly  implicated  are  dead,  I  do 

*  She  was  married  on  the  7th  of  June,  1838,  to  Mr.  George  McLean,  at  St.  Mary's,  Bryanston  Square,  her 
brother,  the  Eev.  Whittington  Landon,  oificiating.  The  bride  was  "  given  away  "  by  her  long  and  attached  friend, 
Sir  Lytton  Bulwer  Lytton,  afterwards  Lord  Lytton.  They  were  married  a  fortnight,  at  least,  before  the  marriage 
was  announced  even  to  friends.  A  sad  story  was  some  time  afterwards  circulated,  the  truth  of  which  I  have  no  means 
of  confirming,  that  McLean  had  been  engaged  to  a  lady  in  Scotland,  which  engagement  he  had  withdravm  ;  and 
that  she  was  in  the  act  of  sealing  a  farewell  letter  to  him,  when  her  dress  caught  fire,  and  she  was  burnt  to  death. 

t  It  is  but  just  to  state  that,  in  a  letter  I  received  from  the  late  Lord  Lytton,  he  dissents  from  the  view  I  take 
of  the  character  of  McLean :  of  whom  he  writes  in  terms  of  consideration  and  respect. 


LMTITIA    ELIZABETH  LANDON. 


27.7 


not  consider  I  commit  any  breach  of  confidence   (especially  as  it  was  not  marked 
"  private  ")  in  printing  it  :* — ■ 

"My  deae,  Mrs.  Hall, 

"  You  are  quite  right  in  saying;  you  owe  me  no  apology  for  your  letter,  thougli  I  own  I 
am  surprised  at  its  contents ;  for,  from  all  that  has  been  said  to  me,  1  had  no  idea  that  the  least 
importance  was  attached  to  the  slanders  of  a  violent  and  malevolent  woman.  Mrs.  Maginn  is  too 
well  known  in  her  own  circle  ;  she  speaks  hut  of  me  as  she  speaks  of  every  one  else.  8he  has  for 
some  time  past  taken  a  great  dislike  to  me,  and  first  one  spiteful  invention  and  then  another  was 
its  consequence — always,  however,  fawning  and  flattering  to  my  face.     She  seems  to  have  quite  a 


THE   GOVEENOIt'S   HO0SB  :    CAPE   COAST   CASTLE. 

mania  about  my  letter-writing ;  for  the  first  shape  in  which  it  reached  me  was,  that  I  had  written 
four-and-twenty  love-letters  to  Mr.  Maclise,  and  that  he  had  offered  her  one  of  them.  As  to  the 
new  fancy  ahout  her  husband,  I  cannot  even  call  it  jealousy— for  jealousy  implies  some  degree  of 
feeling  ;  it  is  sheer  envy,  operating  upon  a  weak,  vulitar,  but  cunning  nature.  Asto  the  idea  of  an 
attachment  between  me  and  Dr.  Maginn,  it  seems  to  me  too  absurd  even  for  denial.  The  letters, 
however,  I  utterly  deny.  I  have  often  written  notes,  as  pretty  and  as  flattering  as  I  could  make 
tliem,  to  Dr.  Maginn,  upon  difi'erent  literary  matters,  and  one  or  two  on  business.  But  how  any 
construction  but  their  own  could  be  put  upon  them  I  do  not  understand.  A  note  of  mme  that 
would  pass  for  a  love-letter  must  either  have  been  strangely  misrepresented,  or  most  strangely 
altered.  Dr.  Maginn  and  his  wife  have  my  full  permission  to  publish  every  note  I  ever  wrote— m 
The  Ane  if  they  like.  I  regret  I  ever  allowed  an  acquaintance  to  he  forced  upon  me  of  which  i  was 
always  ashamed.  The  fact  was  I  was  far  too  much  afraid  of  Dr.  Maginn  not  to  conciliate  him  it 
possible ;  and  if  civility  or  flattery  would  have  done  it,  I  should  have  been  glad  so  to  do.  As  it 
has  turned  out,  I  have,  I  fear,  only  made  myself  a  powerful  enemy ;  lor  of  course,  on  the  first 
rumour  that  reached  me,  I  felt  it  incumbent  on  me  to  forbid  his  visits,  few  and  infrequent  as  they 
were.     I  have  met  both  since,  and  the  only  notice  I  took  was  to  cut  Mrs.  Maginn  decidedly. 

"I  have  long  since  discovered  that  I  must  be  prepared  for  enmity  I  have  never  provoked,  and 


•  In  a  letter  to  Mrs.  HaU,  written  some  time  before  the  one  I  have  printed,  I  find  this  passage  :-"  Who  on 
earth  do  you  think  I  had  a  long  visit  from  on  Sunday  \    Dr.  Maginn." 


278  MEMORIES. 


nnkindness  I  have  little  deserved.  God  knows  that  if  when  I  do  go  into  societ}'  I  meet  with  more  of 
homage  and  attention  than  most,  it  is  dearly  bought.  What  is  my  life  P  One  day  of  drudgery  after 
another;  difficulties  incurred  for  others,  which  have  ever  pressed  upon  me  beyond  health,  which 
every  year,  by  one  severe  illness  alter  another,  shows  is  tasked  beyond  its  strength;  envy,  malice, 
and  all  uncharitableness — these  are  the  fruits  of  a  successful  literary  career  for  a  woman. 

"  I  can  do  nothing.  It  is  impossible  to  lead  a  more  quiet  life,  or  less  to  provoke  personal 
animadversion,  than  I  do,  and  yet  is  there  anything  too  malicious  to  be  invented,  or  too  absurd  to 
be  repeated  about  me  ? 

'•  [  leave  it  to  all  you  have  known  and  seen  of  me  to  judge  if  belief  be  possible. 

"  I  have  nothing  more  to  say.  I  thank  you  for  your  kindness.  I  have  always  experienced  it, 
but  do  not  make  the  slightest  claim  upon  it. 

"  Your  obliged, 

"  L.  E.  Landon." 

To  those  who  knew,  or,  indeed,  had  ever  seen  Dr.  Maginn,  increduhty  as  to  that 
slander  would  not  have  been  difficult.  A  man  less  likely  to  have  gained  the  affections 
of  any  woman  could  not  easily  have  been  found.  To  say  nothing  of  his  being  a 
married  man — dirty  in  his  dress  and  habits,  revolting  in  manners,  and  rarely  sober, 
he  might  have  been  pointed  out  as  one  from  whom  a  woman  of  refinement  would 
have  turned  with  loathing,  rather  than  have  approached  with  love.  I  should, 
perhaps,  have  passed  over  this  incident  as  unworthy  of  thought,  but  that,  in  a  pub- 
lished volume  of  "  EecoUections,"  the  Honourable  Grantley  Berkeley  made  it  the 
peg  on  which  to  hang  "  a  story."  He  can  hardly  expect  those  who  were  either 
the  friends  or  acquaintances  of  Miss  Landon  to  credit  it,  yet  he  is  circumstantial  in 
his  statement  that  she  was  eager  to  place  her  honour  in  his  keeping  on  the  very  first 
occasion  of  their  meeting  (so  he  says),  or  that  she  really  looked  to  him  to  avenge  a 
wrong  done  to  her  by  Dr.  Maginn,  who,  he  more  than  insinuates,  sought  to  corrupt 
L.  E.  L.  as  the  price  of  "  making  or  marring"  her  literary  prospects,  and  that  at  a 
time,  be  it  remembered,  when  her  fame  had  been  long  established,  and  when  no 
writer  could  have  either  increased  or  impaired  it.  Moreover,  Mr.  Berkeley  requires 
us  to  accept  the  picture  he  draws  of  the  poetess — saying  to  him  (the  first  time  she 
had  ever  spoken  with  him),  her  voice  interrupted  by  "  sobs,"  "  I  resolved  to  trust 
you  with  more  than  my  life  ;  to  tell  you  all,  and  to  ask  your  counsel ; "  and  that,  as 
a  consequence,  he  "  rescued  from  the  machinations  of  a  scoundrel  one  of  the  most 
amiable  and  gifted  of  her  sex."  Of  all  visionary  fancies  arising  out  of  the  creative 
faculty,  this  is  one  of  the  most — "thorough." 

For  my  own  part,  although  I  may  believe  that  once  or  twice  Miss  Landon  did 
actually  admit  to  her  presence  the  Honourable  Grantley  Berkeley,  I  do  not  believe 
she  ever  said  to  him  a  single  word  in  reference  to  her  intimacy  with  Dr.  Maginn,  or 
that  any  such  conversation  ever  took  place  as  that  which  this  chivalric  champion  so 
minutely  details.*     I  consider  his  statement  an  invention,  "  pure  and  simple." 

The  last  time  I  saw  L.  E.  L.  was  in  Upper  Berkeley  Street,  Connaught  Square, 
on  the  27th  June,  1838,  soon  after  her  marriage,  when  she  was  on  the  eve  of  her 
fatal  voyage.  A  farewell  party  was  given  to  some  of  her  friends  by  Mrs.  Sheddon, 
with  whom  she  then  boarded,  Misses  Lance   having  resigned  their  school.     When 

*  Mr.  Grantley  Berkeley,  having'  read  my  opinion  when  I  published  my  views  (hut  much  more  guarded  than  they 
are  now)  in  the  Art-Journal,  thought  proper  to  send  me  a  threatening  letter,  and  iu  a  second  edition  of  his  hook  to 
assail  me  in  no  measured  terms.  I  treated  both  in  the  only  way  in  which  they  could  be  treated— with  indiiference ; 
and  took  no  notice  of  his  attacks  on  me.    Others,  however,  did  not  treat  him  so  tenderly.    Mr.  C.  L.  Gruneisen  (a 


L^TITIA   ELIZABETH  LANDON.  279 


the  proper  time  arrived,  there  was  a  whisper  round  the  table,  and  as  I  was  the 
oldest  of  her  friends  present,  it  fell  to  my  lot  to  propose  her  health.  I  did  so  with 
the  warmth  I  felt.  The  "  chances  "  were  that  we  should  never  meet  again  ;  and  I 
considered  myself  free  to  speak  of  her  in  terms  such  as  could  not  but  have  gratified 
any  husband,  except  the  husband  she  had  chosen.  I  referred  to  her  as  one  of  my 
wife's  most  valued  friends  during  many  years  of  closest  personal  intimacy,  and  sought 
to  convey  to  McLean's  mind,  and  to  the  minds  of  her  other  friends,  the  high  respect 
as  well  as  affection  with  which  we  regarded  her.  There  were  some  at  the  table  who 
shed  tears  while  I  spoke.  The  reader  may  imagine  the  chill  which  came  over  that 
party  when  McLean  had  risen  to  "return  thanks."  He  merely  said,  "If  Mrs. 
McLean  has  as  many  friends  as  Mr.  Hall  says  she  has,  I  only  wonder  they  allow 
her  to  leave  them."  That  was  all :  it  was  more  than  a  chill — it  was  a  blight.  A 
gloomy  foreboding  as  to  the  future  of  that  doomed  woman  came  to  all  the  guests,  as, 
one  by  one,  they  rose  and  departed,  with  a  brief  and  mournful  farewell.  Probably 
no  one  of  them  ever  saw  her  again. 

They  sailed  for  Africa  on  the  5th  of  July,  1838.  On  the  15th  of  August  she 
landed,  and  on  the  15th  of  October  she  was  dead! — dying,  according  to  a  coroner's 
jury,  "  of  having  incautiously  taken  a  dose  of  prussic  acid."*  Alas!  it  is  a  sad,  sad 
story — one  that  makes  my  heart  ache  as  I  write.  It  was  a  terrible  close  to  a  most 
unhappy  life. 

The  circumstances  of  her  death  will  be  for  ever  a  mystery — a  sad  and  mournful 
mystery  indeed ! 

The  very  morning  of  her  death,  in  a  letter  to  a  friend,  she  wrote,  "  The  solitude, 
except  an  occasional  dinner,  is  absolute.  From  seven  in  the  morning  till  seven  in 
the  evening,  when  we  dine,  I  never  see  Mr.  McLean,  and  rarely  any  one  else." 
Writing  previously,  she  says,  "  There  are  eleven  or  twelve  chambers  here,  empty,  I 

gentleman  well  known  to,  and  greatly  esteemed  by,  the  public)  took  up  my  defence,  and  it  was  safe  in  Ms  hands. 
He  expresses  his  conviction  that  my  memoir  of  L.  E.  L.  "was  a  thoroughly  truthful  memoir."  That  matters  little ; 
but  he  describes  Mr.  Grantley  Berkeley  as  a  "  slanderer  and  a  libeller ; "  characterising  his  statement  as  "  a  monstrous 
fable."  I  exti'act  two  or  three  passages  from  Mr.  Gruneisen's  brave  and  manly  letter  to  the  editor  of  the  Fall  Mall 
G-azette  .■— "  Mr.  Grantley  Berkeley,  smarting  under  the  obloquy  which  must  always  attach  to  his  name  for  the  brutal 
assault  on  the  proprietor  and  publisher  of  Fraser's  Magazine,  has  now  added  to  the  previous  odium  by  seeking  to  stab 
a  man  through  the  heart  of  a  woman.  To  justify  one  of  the  most  ruffian-like  attacks  ever  made  on  an  unoffending 
tradesman,  Mr.  Berkeley  seeks  to  fis  on  Dr.  Maginn  a  most  disgraceful  charge  by  communicating  to  the  world  that 
which,  if  true,  ought  to  have  been  kept  by  him  a  profound  secret,  even  until  death.  If  L.  E.  L.  did  make  a  Grantley 
Berkeley  her  confidant,  she  must  have  done  so  under  the  impression  that  he  was  a  '  chevalier  sans  peur  et  sans 
leproche'— one  who  would  be  her  champion,  and  not  her  slanderer.  But  I  have  no  hesitation  in  expressing  my 
utter  disbelief  in  Mr.  Berkeley's  statement  that  Miss  Landon  selected  him  as  her  defender.  ...  It  has  evidently 
been  an  afterthought  of  Mr.  Berkeley  to  turn  to  his  accoimt  a  scandalous  report  to  exonerate  him  in  his  allegations 
against  Dr.  Maginn." 

A  few  days  after  the  publication  of  that  letter  (to  which  Mr.  Gruneisen  affixed  his  name  and  address),  the 
Rev.  J.  B.  Landon  (a  cousin  of  Miss  Landon),  in  the  absence  from  England  of  Miss  Landon's  brother,  wi'ote  as 
follows  to  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette:—''  Mr.  Grantley  Berkeley's  statements  would  long  since  have  been  met  with  an 
indignant  denial  on  the  part  of  the  relations  of  L.  E.  L.,  had  they  not  felt  that  the  amount  of  credit  likely  to  be 
attached  to  any  statement  that  gentleman  might  make  was  hardly  such  as  would  justify  them  in  giving  oun-ency 
to  the  slander  by  taking  the  trouble  to  deny  it.  They  would  have  been  satisfied  to  leave  him  to  the  profound  con- 
tempt of  aU  right-thinking  persons  which  he  has  already  incurred,  and  the  reproaches  of  an  accusing  conscience 
which  may  yet  await  him.  As,  however,  others  have  generously  stepped  forward  in  L.  E.  L.'s  defence,  they  feel 
that  silence  on  their  part  might  be  misconstrued  ;  and  I  therefore  lose  no  time  in  declaring  their  conviction  that 
there  is  not  the  slightest  foundation  for  the  story  which  Mr.  Grantley  Berkeley's  morbid  vanity  has  led  him  to 
concoct.'-' 

*  Dr.  Madden  ("  Memoirs  of  Lady  Blessington"),  by  whom  the  "  Gold  Coast"  was  visited  not  long  after  the 
death  of  L.  E.  L.,  describes  the  Castle  as  "a  large,  ill-constmcted,  dismal-looking  fort,  with  a  few  rooms  of  a 
barrack-looking  fashion."  The  town,  "  Cape  Coast,"  is  a  wretched  town,  "  containing  about  four  thousand  inha- 
bitants, natives  of  the  country,  with  a  few  European  traders."  "A  wilderness  of  seared  verdure,  and  tangled 
shrubs  and  stunted  bushes— a  jungle  and  a  swamp,  realising  desolation  "—that  was  the  scenery  around  the 
miserable  dwelling  called  "  a  Castle." 


am  told,  yet  Mr.  McLean  refuses  to  let  me  have  one  of  them  for  my  use.  He 
expects  me  to  cook,  wash,  and  iron ;  in  short,  to  do  the  work  of  a  servant.  He  says 
he  will  never  cease  correcting  me  until  he  has  broken  my  spirit,  and  complains  of 
my  temper,  which  you  know  was  never,  even  under  heavy  trials,  bad."  It  is  but  a 
mild  view  of  the  case  which  Dr.  Madden  takes  when  he  says — "  The  conviction  left 
on  my  mind,  by  all  the  inquiries  I  had  made  (at  Cape  Coast),  and  the  knowledge  I 
had  gained  of  the  pecuUarities  of  Mr.  McLean,  was  that  the  marriage  of  L.  E.  L. 
with  him  was  ill  calculated  to  promote  her  happiness,  or  to  secure  her  peace ; 
and  that  Mr.  McLean,  making  no  secret  of  his  entire  want  of  sympathy  with  her 
tastes,  of  repugnance  for  her  pursuits,  and  eventually  of  entire  indifference  towards 
her,  had  rendered  her  exceedingly  unhappy."  * 

The  following  letter  from  L.  E.  L.  was  received  by  Mrs.  Hall  on  the  3rd  of 
January,  1839.  It  was  without  a  date.  On  the  1st  we  had  heard  of  her  death.  It 
was  a  "  ship  letter,"  and  charged  two  shillings  and  fourpence ;  but  the  mark  of  the 
place  at  which  it  was  posted  is  indistinct : — 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Hall, 

''1  must  send  you  one  of  my  earliest  epistles  from  the  tropics,  and  as  a  ship  is  just 
sailing,  I  will  write,  though  it  can  only  be  a  few  hurried  lines.  I  can  teil  j'ou  my  whole  voyage 
in  three  words — six  weeks'  sea-sickiiess — but  I  am  now  as  well  as  possible,  and  have  been  ever 
since  I  landed.  The  Castle  is  a  very  noble  building,  and  all  the  rooms  large  and  cool,  while  some 
would  he  pretty  even  in  England.  That  where  I  am  writing  is  painted  a  deep  blue,  with  some 
splendid  engravings — indeed,  fine  prints  seem  quite  a  passion  with  the  gentlemen  here.  Mr. 
McLean's  library  is  fitted  up  with  bookcases  of  African  mahogany,  and  portraits  of  distinguished 
authors.  I,  however,  never  approach  it  without  due  preparation  and  humility,  so  crowded  is  it 
with  scientific  instruments,  telescopes,  chronometers,  barometers,  gasometers,  &c.,  none  of  which 
may  be  touched  by  hands  profane.  On  three  sides,  the  batteries  are  dashed  against  by  the  waves  ; 
on  the  fourth  is  a  splendid  land  view.  The  hills  are  covered  to  the  top  with  what  we  should  call 
wood,  but  is  here  called  bush.  This  dense  mass  of  green  is  varied  by  some  large,  handsome,  white 
houses,  belonging  to  different  gentlemen,  and  on  two  of  the  heights  are  small  forts  built  by  Mr. 
Mcl.ean.^  The  cocoa-trees,  with  their  long,  fan-like  leaves,  are  verj^  beautiful.  The  natives  seem 
to  be  obliging  and  intelligent,  and  look  very  picturesque  with  their  fine,  dark  figures,  with  pieces 
of  the  country  cloth  flung  around  them.  They  seem  to  have  an  excellent  ear  for  music.  The 
band  plays  all  the  old  popular  airs  which  they  have  caug'nt  from  some  chance  hearing.  The  ser- 
vants are  tolerable,  but  they  take  so  many  to  work.  The  pri.^oners  do  the  scouring,  and  fancy 
three  or  four  men  cleaning  a  room  that  an  old  woman  in  England  would  do  in  an  hour,  besides  Ihe 
soldier  who  stands  by,  his  bayonet  drawn  in  his  hand.  All  my  troubles  have  been  of  a  house- 
keeping kind,  and  no  one  could  begin  on  a  more  plentiful  stock  of  ignorance  than  myself.  How- 
ever, like  Sinbad  the  Sailor  in  the  cavern,  I  begin  to  see  daylight.  I  have  numbered  and  labelled 
my  keys — their  name  is  legion — and  every  morning  I  take  my  way  to  the  !^tore,  give  out  flour, 
sugar,  butter,  &c.,  and  am  learning  to  scold  if  I  see  any  dust,  or  miss  the  customary  polish  on  the 
tables.  I  am  actually  getting  the  steward  of  the  ship,  who  is  my  right  hand,  1o  teach  me  how  to 
make  pastry.  I  will  report  progress  in  the  next.  We  live  almost  entire. y  on  ducks  and  chickens  ;  if 
a  sheep  be  killed,  it  must  be  eaten  the  same  day.  The  bread  is  very  good,  palm  wine  being  used  for 
yeast ;  and  yams  are  an  excellent  substitute  for  potatoe.s.  The  fruit  generally  is  too  sweet  for  my 
liking,  but  the  oranges  and  pine-apples  are  delicious.  You  cannot  think  the  complete  seclusion  in 
which  I  live,  but  I  have  a  great  resource  in  writing,  and  I  am  very  well  and  very  happy.  But  I 
think,  even  more  than  I  expected,  if  that  be  possible,  of  my  English  friends.  It  was  almost  like 
seeing  something  alive  when  I  saw  the  '  Buccaneer'  and  '  Outlaw  '  side  by  side  in  Mr.  McLean's 
library.   I  cannot  tell  you  the  pleasure  it  gave  me.   Do  tell  Mr.  Hall  that  every  day  I  find  the  '  Books 

*  "  Mr.  McLean  was  a  good  mathematician.  All  his  tastes  were  for  the  cultivation  of  the  exact  sciences.  His 
favourite  pursuits  were  geometrical  and  algebraic  calculations,  barometrical  and  thermometrical  observations.  He 
affected  scorn  for  poetry  and  poets." 

Mr.  McLean  died  at  Oape  Coast  on  the  28'"li  of  May,  1847.  He  had  been  for  several  years  "President  of  the 
Afiican  Company"  in  Western  Africa.  He  was  not  buried  in  the  same  grave  with  his  unhappy  wife,  but  "at 
her  side." 


L^TITIA    ELIZABETH  LAN  DON.  •  281 


of  Gems '  greater  treasures.  I  refer  to  them  perpetually.  I  have  been  busy  with  what  I  hope  you 
will  like — essays  from  Sir  Walter  Scolt's  works,  to  illu-itrate  a  set  of  Heath's  portraits.  I  believe 
they  are  to  appear  every  fortnight  next  year.  Give  my  kindest  love  to  Mrs.  Fielding  and  Mr.  Hall, 
and  believe  me  ever  your  truly  affectionate 

"L.  E.  McLean." 

She  had  signed  her  name  "  L.  E.  Landon,"  but  had  erased  "  Landon,"  and 
written  in  "  McLean,"  adding,  "  How  difficult  it  is  to  leave  oif  an  old  custom  !  " 

She  was  buried,  on  the  evening  of  her  death,  "in  the  courtyard  of  the  Castle." 
The  grave  was  dug  by  torchlight  ;  and  there  stood  beside  it  a  few  "  mourners  " 
wrapped  in  cloaks,  shelters  from  "  a  pitiless  torrent  of  rain."  Guided  by  "  a  flicker- 
ing light,"  the  busy  workmen  hurried  through  their  work ;  the  mourners  hastened 
away;  one  "  silent  watcher  " — it  was  not  her  husband — waited  till  the  grave  was 
covered  in,  and  all  that  was  mortal  of  her  whose  life  was  indeed  a  grief  from  the 
cradle  to  the  grave  was  "  put  out  of  sight."* 

Let  the  name  she  bore  for  so  brief  a  time  be  forgotten  ;  let  her  be  known  in  the 
literary  history  of  her  country  only  as  Lsetitia  Elizabeth  Landon  ;  and  let  the  "  small 
white  tablet  inserted  in  the  Castle  wall  "  at  Cape  Coast  be  the  only  record  of  the 
name  "  McLean."  f 

Poor  girl !  Poor  woman  !  Poor  victim  !  Thus  she  fulfilled  her  own  mournful 
prediction,  though  speaking  of  another  :  — 

"  Where  my  father's  1)01168  are  lying, 
There  my  bones  will  never  lie  ! 

Mine  shall  be  a  lonelier  ending, 

Mine  shall  be  a  wilder  grave  : 
Where  the  shout  and  shriek  are  blending, 

Where  the  tempest  meets  the  wave. 
Or  perhaps  a  fate  more  lonely, 

In  some  drear  and  distant  ward, 
Where  my  weary  eyes  meet  only 

Hired  nuise  and  sullen  guard  !  " 

*  Lady  Blessiagton  had  charged  Dr.  Madden  to  have  erected,  at  her  cost,  a  monument  over  the  remains  of 
L.  E.  L.  Upon  applying  on  the  subject  to  Mr.  McLean,  he  said,  "  It  was  unnecessary,  as  he  had  already  ordered 
out  from  England  a  mural  slab  with  an  inscription  ;  and  it  had  been  lying  for  some  time  in  a  store  in  the  Castle, 
and  he  would  have  it  put  up  shortly."    That  was  done  a  few  days  afterwards. 

I)r.  Madden  thus  describes  the  grave  of  the  poetess  : — "  The  spot  that  was  chosen  for  the  grave  of  this  accom- 
plished, but  unhappy  lady  could  not  be  more  inappropriate.  A  few  common  tiles  distinguish  it  from  the  graves  of 
the  various  military  men  who  have  perished  in  this  stronghold  of  pestilence.  Her  grave  is  daily  trampled  over  by 
the  soldiers  of  the  fort.  The  morning  blast  of  the  bugle  and  roll  of  the  drum  are  the  sounds  that  have  been  thought 
most  in  unison  with  the  spirit  of  the  gentle  being  who  sleeps  below  the  few  red  tiles  where  the  soldiers  on  parade  do 
congi-egate.  There  is  not  a  plant,  nor  a  blade  of  grass,  nor  anything  green,  in  that  courtyard,  on  which  the 
burning  sun  blazes  down  all  day  long.     And  this  is  the  place  w  lere  they  have  buried  L.  E  L.  ! " 

It  is,  I  presume,  a  vain  hope  that  some  one  hereafter  may  transport  her  remains  from  that  wretched  "  settle- 
ment," and  place  them  in  some  God's  acre  of  English  ground  ;  realising  the  hope  of  Walter  Savage  Landor  in  some 
lines  addressed  to  Lady  Blessington : — 

"  Oh,  never  more !  the  burthen  of  the  strain 

Be  those  sad,  hopeless  words ;  then  make  her  bed 
Near  shadowy  boughs,  that  she  may  dwell  again 
Where  her  own  English  violets  bloom  and  fade. 

The  sole  sweet  records  clustered  o'er  her  heid, 
In  this  strange  land,  to  tell  where  our  belov'd  is  laid." 

+  During  Dr.  Madden's  brief  residence  at  Cape  Coist  Castle  he  occupied  the  chamber  in  which  L.  E.  L.  died. 
He  describes  "a  frightful  dream,  or  rather,  a  half- waking,  half-sleeping  sort  of  hallucination,  in  which  I  fancied 
that  the  form  of  Mrs.  McLean,  clad  in  a  white  dress,  was  extended  before  me  lifeless  on  the  floor,  on  the  spot  where 
I  had  been  told  her  body  had  been  discovered.  This  imaginary  white  object  liy  between  my  bed  and  the  window, 
thi'ough  which  the  moon  was  shining  brightly,  and  every  time  I  raised  myself,  and  examined  closely  this  spot,  on 
which  the  moonbeams  fell  in  a  slanting  direction,  the  imaginary  form  would  cease  tu  be  discernible  ;  and  then  in  a 
few  minutes,  when  I  might  doze,  or  fail  by  any  effort  to  keep  attention  alive,  the  same  appalling  figure  would 
present  itself  to  my  im'agination." 

Was  this  "  a  dream  that  was  not  all  a  dream  \ " 


SAMUEL   LAMAN  BLANCHAED. 

The  name  of  Laman  Blanchaed  may  be  rightly  associated  with  that  of  Lsetitia 
Elizabeth  Landon,  for  he  wrote  her  "  Life,"  and  did  ample  justice  to  her  memory. 
He  first  met  the  young  poetess  at  our  house ;  and  a  friendship  was  commenced 
between  them  which  did  not  terminate  with  her  death.  Foreseeing  what  "  might 
be,"  she  had  laid  a  duty  on  him  before  her  departure  for  Africa,  and  the  pledge  he 
gave  was  faithfully  kept.  With  a  copy  of  the  volumes,  Blanchard  wrote  us  this 
note: — ■ 

"  For  two  reasons  you  will  try  to  like  the  long-looked  for.  The  first  and  strongest  refers  to  the 
glorious  creature  who  is  g(me ;  and  the  second  to  one  whom  you  know  to  have  striven  hard  to  vin- 
dicate her  name,  and  to  keep  her  memory  as  a  pleasant  odour  in  the  world.  If  1  have  i'ailed,  it  is 
because  there  were  difficulties  in  the  way  that  I  cannot  explain  ;  and  if  some  of  her  enemies  escape, 
it  was  because  I  was  fearful  of  injuring  her." 

Blanchard  was  born  at  Great  Yarmouth  on  the  15th  of  May,  1803.  His  father 
removed  to  London  in  1805,  and  followed  the  calling  of  a  painter  and  glazier  in 
Southwark.  Laman  was  educated  at  the  neighbouring  school  of  St.  Olave,  where  he 
soon  became  a  prominent  scholar,  gaining  prizes  when  he  was  under  ten  years  old. 
He  had  been  doomed  to  drudgery  in  a  proctor's  office,  but  early  formed  acquaintance 
with  Buckstone,  and  acquired  a  taste  for  the  stage.  He  tried,  indeed,  his  "prentice 
ban'  "  at  the  Margate  theatre,  but  recoiled  with  the  natural  delicacy  of  a  sensitive  and 
highly-refined  organisation  from  the  humiliations  of  a  strolling  player's  life.  For  a 
time  he  was  assistant  secretary  to  the  Zoological  Society,  of  which  his  brother-in- 
law.  Vigors,  was  the  chief  founder  and  secretary.  At  the  early  age  of  eighteen  he 
fell  in  love,  and  married  Miss  Ann  Gates.  He  soon  became  a  "  writer,"  editing  or 
sub-editing  the  Monthly  Magazine,  La  Belle  Assemblee,  afterwards  the  True  Sun,  and 
ultimately  the  Courier,  the  once  famous  paper  being  then  in  a  dying  state,  having, 
moreover,  gone  over  from  the  Tories  to  the  ultra-Liberals.  None  of  these  employ- 
ments were  remunerative  ;  he  worked  hard,  and  in  many  ways,  to  keep  the  wolf, 
Poverty,  from  the  door. 

He  published  but  one  book — "Lyric  Offerings" — a  collection  of  most  sweet 
poems.  His  writings  were  all  "  anonymous."  Few  but  his  friends  knew  the  true 
value  of  the  author,  fewer  still  the  great  worth  of  the  man. 

His  name  is  not  largely  known  ;  for  he  died  while  yet  but  midway  up  "  the 
steep"  that  leads  to  "Fame's  eternal  temple."  Not  long  after  the  death  of  his 
friend  L.E.L.,  he  himself  proved  the  sad  truth  of  the  lines,  that 

"  Wit  to  madness  nearly  is  allied, 
And  thin  partitions  do  the  bounds  divide." 

I  knew  him  when  he  commenced  his  career  as  a  man  of  letters  by  profession. 
Scott  has  well  said,  "  Literature  is  a  good  staff,  but  a  bad  crutch," — to  depend  on  it 
altogether  is  but  a  sadly  precarious  trust.  He  was  of  all  men  the  readiest  and  most 
versatile.    His  ever  prompt  and  eloquent  pen  could  indite  a  sonnet,  point  an  epigram, 


SAMUEL   LAMAN  BLANCHARD.  283 


tell  a  story,  or  give  interest  to  an  essay,  while  slower  spirits  were  pondering  and 
wondering  what  they  had  to  write  about.  His  wit  was  genial,  and  not  caustic  :  it 
brightened  everything  it  played  about,  and  was  checked  only  by  a  sensitive  desire  to 
avoid  giving  pain  : — 

"  His  wit  in  the  combat,  as  gentle  as  bright, 
Ne'er  can-ied  a  heart-stain  away  on  its  blade  !  " 

His  was  the  ardent  temperament  of  a  genuine  child  of  song,  yet  dedicated  to  the 
direst  and  hardest  duty- work.  His  vocation  was  that  of  a  writer  for  the  press  ; 
and  multitudinous  were  his  "leaders,'  "criticisms,"  "reviews,"  "reports,"  and 
"opinions"  upon  every  conceivable  subject,  which  the  public  strongly  rehshed, 
while  entirely  ignorant  of  their  source  : — 

"  The  sunny  temper,  bright  where  all  is  strife  ; 
The  simple  heart  that  mocks  at  worldly  wiles  ; 
Light  wit  that  plays  along  the  calm  of  life, 
And  stirs  its  languid  surface  into  smiles." 

In  person  he  was  small ;  his  countenance  was  at  once  expressive  of  his  heart  and 
mind — sensitive,  graceful,  and  affectionate  ;  his  eyes,  those  unerring  indicators  of 
genius,  were  peculiarly  tender,  yet  sparkling  like  two  burning  coals.  Earnest,  true, 
fervent,  sympathising,  the  man  was  made  to  be  loved. 

While  yet  in  the  prime  of  life  and  in  the  vigour  of  intellect,  a  domestic  sorrow 
— the  death  of  his  wife,  whom  he  had  married  when  little  more  than  a  boy — struck 
his  energies  at  the  root.  Eest,  perfect  rest,  was  absolutely  needed  to  his  body  and 
his  mind  ;  but  how  was  the  day-labourer  for  bread  to  obtain  it,  with  several  children 
looking  to  him  for  food  ?  It  is  a  common  thing  for  thoughtless  friends  to  say  to  such 
a  man  so  circumstanced,  "You  must  not  overwork  yourself !  "  Ah!  they  do  not 
see  under  the  gay  draperies  that  society  folds  around  the  form — they  do  not  see  the 
chains  that  bind  us  to  the  galley  in  which  we  are  slaves.  A  terror  of  the  future — a 
spectral  dread  of  want — took  hold  of  my  poor  friend — seized  him  by  the  brain  through 
the  heart.  It  was  half  real,  half  imaginary,  yet  it  did  its  work.  Hope  went,  and 
life  followed.  The  eloquent  and  tender  poet ;  the  brave  advocate  of  natural  rights  ; 
the  brimful  and  active,  but  generous,  wit ;  the  sterling  and  steadfast  essayist ;  the 
searching,  yet  indulgent,  critic — for  he  was  all  these  and  more — died  in  a  moment  of 
madness  induced  by  despair  ;  and  died  in  harness,  which,  if  one  ready  hand  had 
unbuckled  for  a  time,  he  might  have  worn,  after  brief  repose,  with  honour  to  himself 
and  advantage  to  all  mankind.* 

The  reader  will,  I  trust,  permit  me  to  print  two  or  three  extracts  from  his  letters  : 
they  show  the  fervid  and  affectionate  nature  of  the  man, — how  prone  he  was  to 
exaggerate  small  favours  conferred ;  while  they  serve,  in  a  degree,  to  account  for  the 
terrible  ending  of  his  laborious  and  energetic  life  : — 

"Your  letter,  dear  Mrs.  Hull,  contained  as  much  sound  wisdom  as  true  kindness.  More  I 
cannot  say.     It  gratified  us  much;    but  gratified  is  a  wretched  word  ;    it  moved  and  delighted  ua 

*  In  fact,  hands  wtn  ready  to  do  the  work  of  mercy.  Lord  Lytton  and  John  Forster,  two  of  his  most  es+eemed 
and  valued  friends,  knowing  his  circumstances  and  particular  need.s,  had  met  and  devised  a  plan  to  free  him  of 
all  unhealthy  encumbrances.  They  were,  I  have  been  told,  actually  together,  devising  the  best  mode  of  working  for 
his  emancipation  from  pecuniary  obligations,  when  they  received  intelligence  of  his  death. 


284  MEMORIES. 


more  than  any  letter  I  ever  received  in  my  life.  As  few  living  could  have  so  written,  so  no  one,  I 
almost  think,  would  have  so  written.  It  will  be  treasured  as  something  more  precious  than  the 
ordinary  tokens  of  interest  and  friendship — as  sometliing  more  to  be  prized  than  the  tokens  which 
the  early  dreams  of  Fame  look  forward  to,  for  a  better  fame  it  is  to  enjoy  the  sympathy  and  regard 
of  those  to  whom  she  is  a  familiar  guest  than  to  have  a  flying  visit  from  her  oneself.  You  have 
brightened  my  present  by  giving  me  such  a  glimpse  of  a  future  ;  and  that  future,  whatever  it  may 
turn  out,  must  be  gladdened  by  the  recollection  of  this  moment — of  the  feelings  crowded  into  it,  of 
the  resolves  I  build  upon  it.  The  only  thnnks  I  give  you  are  conveyed  in  the  adoption  of  your 
advice,  in  the  prompt  and  earnest  acting  upon  that  which  you  have  so  feelingly  and  beautiiully 
expressed.  Most  sure  we  are  that  this  will  be  felt  by  you  as  the  truest  gratitude,  and  that  all 
return  else  would  be  idle." 

"  I  am  scarecely  out  of  the  house  once  a  month,  the  condition  of  my  wife  being  so  precarious, 
her  faculties  so  impaired,  and  the  mental  irritation  so  continual.  I  am  nearly  worn  out  with 
anxieties  and  miseries,  though  not  easily  cast  down.  Her  bodily  strength  may  admit  of  her  being 
removed  shortly  ;  that  may  give  a  chance  for  her  shaken  brain  and  restless  nerves." 

"The  alarm  occasioned  by  my  excessive  illness  is  past,  and  the  frightful  nervous  derangement 
and  palpitations  are  abating,  so  as  to  give  the  assurance  that  my  system,  which  had  been  insensibly 
sinking  for  many  weeks,  has  been  spared  the  worst  blow.  To  a  total  want  of  rest,  calm  promises 
to  succeed,  and  I  am  already,  though  pitiably  distressed  in  health,  considerably  relieved.  In  the 
deepest  of  this  affliction  I  have  been  conscious  of  the  presence  of  a  spirit  of  mercy.  And  the 
extreme  kindnuss  of  many  friends — dear  to  me  always  is  yours  and  Mr.  Hall's — not  only  endears 
life  to  me,  but  also  enables  me  lo  live.  God  bless  you  and  yours,  dear  Mrs.  Hall,  prays,  with  his 
truest  gratitude,  your  faithful  friend,  La.man  Blanchard." 

It  was  indeed  a  melancholy  morning  when  thirty  or  forty  of  his  friends  assembled 
at  his  dwelling,  somewhere  in  Lambeth,  to  accompany  his  remains  to  the  grave,  in 
the  cemetery  at  Norwood,  where  not  long  afterwards  a  monument  was  erected  to  his 
memory. 

Prominent  among  the  group  that  filled  his  stiiall  parlour  was  his  constant  friend 
and  familiar  associate,  Douglas  Jerrold.  The  ceremony  was  one  of  peculiar  gloom  ; 
and  the  sobs  that  every  now  and  then  came  from  some  corner  of  that  mournful  room 
manifested  deep  and  desponding  grief  that  a  life  so  active  and  so  useful  should  have 
been  closed  by  so  sad  a  death,  just  when  the  future  seemed  to  promise  a  reward 
other  than  "  rest  from  labour." 

Blanchard  and  Jerrold  were  friends  from  a  very  early  period.  They  had  similar 
tastes,  yet  their  natures  were  very  opposite  :  in  Blanchard  there  was  nothing  of  the 
caustic  bitterness  so  notorious  in  Douglas  Jerrold.  I  have  heard  a  hundred  of 
Jerrold's  witty  sayings  or  retorts — very  few  that  had  no  sting  ;  indeed,  I  can  call 
to  mind  but  one,  and  that  is  well  known.  When  Charles  Knight,  the  esteemed  and 
estimable  publisher,  one  evening  asked  Jerrold  to  write  his  epitaph,  "  I  will,"  he 
answered  ;   "in  fact,  it  is  done — '  Good  Knight  ! '  " 

It  was  far  otherwise  with  Laman  Blanchard,  who  was  ever  kindly  tender  and 
genial  ;  whose  wit  was  often  as  pungent  and  brilliant  as  that  of  his  friend,  but  who, 
as  I  have  said,  was  not  only  reluctant  to  give  pain  by  repartee,  but  had  always 
something  to  say  that  might  give  pleasure.  Jerrold  carried  in  his  countenance  the 
leading  characteristics  of  his  mind ;  its  expression  was  penetrating  and  sarcastic.  I 
am  told,  by  those  who  knew  him  more  intimately  than  I  did,  that  his  heart  was 
open  to  melting  charity ;  that,  if  his  words  often  gave  a  stab,  he  was  ever  ready  and 
willing  to  heal  the  wounds  he  inflicted  ;  and  that  in  his  domestic  relations   he  was 


WILLIAM  JERDAN.  285 


sympathetic,  generous,  and  good.  His  son,  Blanchard  Jerrold  (who  has  made  himself 
a  name  in  letters),  is  the  husband  of  Blanchard's  only  daughter,  and  they  have  children 
who  bear  the  joint  names  of  the  two  men. 

In  1856,  the  American  author,  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  met  Douglas  Jerrold ;  and 
this  is  the  portrait  he  drew  of  him  : — 

"  He  was  a  very  short  man,  but  with  breadth  enough,  and  a  hack  excessively  bent — bowed 
almost  to  deformity  ;  very  grey  hair,  and  a  face  and  expression  of  remarkable  briskness  and 
intelligence.  His  profile  came  out  pretty  boldlv,  and  his  eyes  had  the  prominence  that  indicates, 
I  believe,  volubility  of  speech  ;  nor  did  he  fail  to  talk  from  the  instant  of  his  appearance  ;  and  in 
the  tone  of  his  voice,  and  in  his  glance,  and  in  the  whole  man,  there  was  something  racy — a 
flavour  of  the  humorist.  His  step  was  that  of  an  aged  man,  and  he  put  his  slick  down  very 
decidedly  at  every  footfall ;  though,  as  he  alterwards  told  me  that  he  was  only  fifty-two,  he  need 
not  yet  have  been  infirm." 

[Blanchard  Jerrold  has  recently  published  a  memoir  of  his  father-in-law  and  god- 
father, Laman  Blanchard.  It  gives  me  little  or  nothing  to  add  to  my  Memory  of 
him.  With  the  "  Life  "  are  published  several  of  his  fugitive  pieces  :  a  careful  search 
might  have  found  others,  to  my  mind,  better  worth  preserving  than  those  that  have 
been  thus  collected.] 


WILLIAM   JEEDAN. 


I  CANNOT  close  this  Memory  of  poor  unhappy  L^titia  Landon  without  introducing 
some  comments  concerning  the  career  of  William  Jeedan,  who  was  so  long 
"before  the  world"  as  the  editor  of  many  works,  more  especially  the  Literary 
Gazette. 

He  tells  us  in  his  "  Autobiography  "  that  he  was  born  at  Kelso,  on  the  16th  of 
April,  1782  :  he  died  at  Bushy  Heath,  in  Kent,  on  the  11th  of  July,  1869,  in  his 
eighty-eighth  year.  His  was,  therefore,  a  very  long  life  ;  and  if  its  historian  cannot 
describe  it  as  altogether  creditable,  it  was  certainly  useful. 

It  would  be  difficult  now  to  comprehend  the  immense  power  exercised  by  the 
Literary  Gazette  for  a  period  of  time  extending  over  the  years  between  1820  and 
1840.  A  laudatory  review  there  was  almost  sure  to  sell  an  edition  of  a  book,  and 
an  author's  fame  was  established  when  he  had  obtained  the  praise  of  that  journal. 
People  do  not,  perhaps,  think  more  for  themselves  now  than  they  did  then  ;  but  the 
bands  that  bestowed  the  laurels  were,  at  that  time,  few  :  country  readers  and  pro- 
vincial booksellers  had  no  other  guide.  There  are  now  a  hundred  reviewers  in 
London,  and  in  the  several  shires  of  the  kingdom  thrice  as  many ;  but  for  a  quarter 
of  a  century  there  was  but  one  who  was  accepted  as  "  authority."  The  Gazette  stood 
alone  as  the  arbiter  of  fate,  literary  and  artistic.  In  process  of  time  other  Daniels 
came  to  judgment :  several  rivals  had  appeared — to  Hve  a  brief  while  and  die  ;  but 
the  Athenmim  became  a  competitor  irresistible.  The  elder  Dilke  was  a  gentleman  of 
energy  and  independence  ;  moreover,  he  had  capital.  That  periodical  had  been  tried 
and  did  nothing  in  the  hands  of  Silk  Buckingham,  but  when  Mr.  Dilke  became  its 


285  MEMORIES. 


1 


sustaining  influence  it  rapidly  rose  ;  the  Literary  Gazette  as  rapidly  fell.  In  1850  it 
passed  from  the  hands  of  Mr.  Jerdan,  and  in  1862  it  died,  and  is  forgotten. 

It  is  but  justice  to  say  of  Mr.  Jerdan  that  he  ever  "did  his  spiriting  gently," 
was  always  ready  to  help,  and  never  willing  to  depress,  the  efforts  of  men  striving 
for  fame  ;  and  many  are  they  who  achieved  greatness  mainly  as  a  consequence  of 
the  encouragement  received  at  his  hands,  whom  severity  of  rebuke  might  have 
depressed  into  oblivion.  It  is  scarcely  too  much  to  say  that  during  his  fifty  years 
of  labour  there  was  hardly  a  young  author  who  did  not  gratefully  thank  him  for 
"  good  words." 

As  with  authors,  so  with  artists.  He  may  have  occasionally  over-appreciated 
inferiority,  and  there  may  have  been  a  few  cases  in  which  he  failed  to  see  the 
promise  in  the  bud  ;  but  generally — almost  universally — his  judgment  was  sound, 
and  his  verdicts  such  as  were  seldom  questioned  either  by  competitors  or  successors. 
That  is  no  slight  praise  of  one  who  wielded  a  power  of  which  existing  conductors 
of  the  public  press  can  form  but  a  weak  estimate.  Some  of  them  would  do  well  to 
imitate  his  example  ;  some  who  think  little  of  the  broken  hearts  they  cause  when 
occupied  in  the  business  of  criticism  ;  who  do  not  often  go  to  rest  without  the  con- 
sciousness that  the  bitter  "justice"  of  the  pen  has  made  some  one  miserable. 

To  their  consideration  I  recommend  this  verse  of  a  hymn  :- — 

"  Help  us  to  help  each  other,  Lord, 
Each  other's  cross  to  bear  ; 
Let  each  his  friendly  aid  afford 
To  soothe  his  brother's  care !  " 

But  Mr.  Jerdan  was  not  the  editor  of  the  Literary  Gazette  only  ;  he  was  the 
author  of  many  original  works.  None  of  them,  indeed,  have  maintained  any  hold 
on  the  public,  but  they  served  their  purpose  for  a  time,  and  were  evidence  of  thought 
and  industry  as  well  as  ability. 

In  1852-3  he  published  his  "  Autobiography  ;"  and  in  1866  a  volume  entitled 
"  The  Men  I  have  Known  " — printed  originally  in  that  useful  and  interesting  and 
thoroughly  good  periodical,  the  Leisure  Hour.  I  confess  I  have  wondered  how  it 
was  that  these  works  contain  so  little  :  no  man  has  lived  who  had  so  many  oppor- 
tunities of  personal  intercourse  with  the  leading  authors  and  artists  of  his  age.  He 
seems  to  have  neglected  such  opportunities  strangely ;  probably  he  never  contem- 
plated being  called  upon  to  write  concerning  them ;  and  it  is  certain  that  he  was  not 
of  those  who  sow  seed  for  an  anticipated  harvest.* 

I  was  not  one  of  his  intimate  friends,  but  I  have  met  occasionally  at  his  residence, 
Grove  House,  Brompton,  a  house  long  ago  removed  to  make  way  for  Ovington  Square, 
many  of  the  chief  wits,  leading  authors,  and  principal  artists  of  the  time — a  time 
comprising  many  years — and  a  very  large  proportion  of  them  were  contributors  to 
his  Gazette. 

*  One  of  Jerdan's  latest  "  works  "  was  to  found  the  "  Army  and  Navy  Pensioners'  Employment  Society  " — a 
Fociety  that  did  an  enormous  amount  of  good,  and  which  still  exists  as  one  of  the  truest  and  best  charities  of  the 
metropolis.  Out  of  it  grew  the  "Corps  of  Commissionnaries,"  formed  and  established  by  Captain  Walter,  and 
wiiich  has  become  one  of  the  most  useful  institutions  of  England.  It  would  do  no  good  now  to  make  record  of  the 
"  untoward  "  circumstances  that  led  to  Mr.  Jerdan's  retirement  from  the  society  not  long  after  it  was  formed. 


WILLIAM  JERDAN.  287 


Still,  although  his  "  Autobiography"  disappoints  me,  it  does  not  follow  that  it  will 
disappoint  others.  The  volumes  were  hurriedly  pushed  through  the  press ;  he  did 
not  stay  to  clothe  naked  facts,  or  to  describe  the  person  of  whom  he  undertook  to  say 
something.  I  have  been  surprised  to  note  how  rarely  I  have  been  indebted  to  him 
for  a  suggestion,  or  an  idea,  in  recalling  my  own  "  Memories." 

I  met  him  at  dinner,  when  he  was  in  his  eighty-fifth  year.  It  was  at  the  society 
of  "  Noviomagus,"  a  social  society  founded  by  Crofton  Croker  and  some  other  anti- 
quaries, some  fifty  years  ago,  consisting  exclusively  of  Fellows  of  the  Society  of 
Antiquaries,  and  which  has  numbered  among  its  members,  and  especially  its  guests, 
many  distinguished  and  remarkable  men.  Jerdan  was  singularly  full  of  life  and 
vigour,  said  many  witty  things,  conversed  with  great  animation  of  his  long-past,  and 
delivered  a  speech,  pointed,  epigrammatic,  nay,  even  eloquent.  It  would  have  been 
a  matter  to  remember  if  it  had  occurred  even  in  his  best  days.  Yet  he  was 
then,  as  he  has  long  been,  as  Hawthorne  has  described  him,  "time-worn,  but  not 
reverend." 

I  would  gladly  say  more  than  I  have  felt  justified  in  saying  of  William  Jerdan. 
Many  liked  and  regarded,  without  respecting  him ;  no  doubt  he  was  of  heedless 
habits  ;  no  doubt  he  cared  little  for  the  cost  of  self-gratification ;  no  doubt  he  was  far 
too  little  guided,  all  his  life  long,  by  high  and  upright  principle ;  but  I,  for  one,  will 
not  decline  to  accept  the  "apology"  thus  offered  in  his  "Autobiography" — a  hope 
"that  some  fond  and  faithful  regret  might  embalm  the  memory  of  the  sleeper,  who 
can  never  wake  more  to  participate  in  a  sorrow  and  bestow  a  solace,  listen  to  distress 
and  bring  it  relief,  serve  a  friend  and  forgive  a  foe,  perform  his  duties  as  perfectly  as 
his  human  frailty  allowed,  never  wilfully  do  injury  to  man,  woman,  or  child,  and  love 
his  neighbours — of  one  sex  as  himself,  and  of  the  other  better." 

I  quote  with  less  satisfaction  another  passage  in  which  Jerdan  said  of  himself — 
"  I  have  drained  the  Circe-cup  to  the  lees  ;  but  I  still  gratefully  acknowledge  the 
enchanting  draught  of  its  exquisite  and  transporting  sweetness,  in  spite  of  the  empti- 
ness of  its  froth  and  the  bitterness  of  its  dregs."  Far  better  for  him  would  it  have 
been  if  he  had  more  often  put  away  from  his  lips  the  Circe- cup,  and  given  heed  to 
the  warning  that  its  pernicious  effects  may  poison  mind,  heart,  and  soul. 

"  He  was  nobody's  enemy  but  his  own" — a  saying  common  enough,  but  one  more 
utterly  fallacious  or  more  calculated  to  work  evil  could  not  be  quoted.  The  man  who 
is  his  own  enemy  is  the  enemy  of  all  mankind,  not  only  in  the  wrongs  he  actually 
induces,  but  in  the  example  he  gives — in  the  lessons  he  is  perpetually  teaching  to 
those  who  are  either  wicked  or  weak  imitators. 

His  first  appearance  in  print  was  in  1804-5  ;  his  latest  articles  were  given  to  the 
printer  in  1869.  He  died  in  harness — it  may  almost  be  said  with  the  pen  in  his 
hand ;  for  although  aided  in  his  later  days  by  the  Crown  pension  of  £100  a  year,  his 
necessities  compelled  him  to  work  for  bread.  He  had  many  attached  friends  with 
ready  help  when  want  came  too  near  him.  The  most  assiduous  was  the  sculptor 
Joseph  Durham,  who  stood  by  him  to  the  last,  and  saw  him  placed  in  his  grave.  The 
most  generous  and  helpful  was  Sir  Frederick  Pollock,  the  companion  of  his  boyhood 
and  his  friend  always.     That  most  learned,  most  good,  and  most  admirable  man,  who 


went  to  his  rest  on  the  very  day  when  I  wrote  this  Memory,  "full  of  years  and 
honours  "  indeed — might  have  been  an  example  (which  he  was  not)  as  well  as  a 
friend  (which  he  was)  to  William  Jerdan.  Estimable  in  all  the  relations  of  life,  he 
adorned  and  honoured  the  elevated  position  to  which  he  raised  himself,  not  less  by 
integrity  than  by  genius,  and  added  one  more  to  the  long  list  of  great  lawyers  who 
have  been  good  men.  He  left  several  sons  ;  one  of  them  holds  the  highest  rank  as 
a  physician,  and  another  on  the  Bench. 

It  is  strong  testimony  to  the  merit  of  William  Jerdan,  that  for  more  than  sixty 
years  he  kept  the  friendship  of  Frederick  Pollock. 


WILLIAM  WOEDSWOETH. 

Cockermouth,  in  Cumberiand,   on  the  7th  of  April,  1770,  the 

?reat   poet,    William    Wordsworth,    was    born.      The    house   in 

which  he  first  saw  the  light  that  cheered  and  gladdened  him 

for  more   than  eighty  years,  and  from  which  came  the  light 

that  will  cheer  and  gladden  hundreds  of  millions  as  long  as 

man  endures — the  house  is  still  standing,  and  I  have  pictured 

it.     It  is  a  gentleman's  residence  now,  as  it  was  then  ;  for 

he  was  of  a  good  family,  was  educated  at  Hawkshead  School, 

and  graduated  at  St.  John's,  Cambridge,  in  1787. 

His  is  not  a  "  full"  life  in  the  ordinary   sense  of  the  term  ;  and  it  may 

be  told  in  a  few  sentences.     He  has  said  that  "  a  poet's  life  is  written  in  his 

works  :  "  of  himself  it  is  especially  true.* 

He  was  never   "at  home"   at  the   University;    and   he   has   left  few 
Y         records  of  his  residence  there. 

"  He  was  not  for  that  hour  nor  for  that  place."     Feeling 

"  How  gracious,  how  benign,  is  solitude," 

*  He  did,  however,  write — or  rather,  he  dictated— a  brief  biography,  which  his  nephew,  Dr  Christopher  Words- 
worlh,  now  Bishop  of  Lincoln,  has  published  in  his  comprehensive,  yet  succinct,  reverential,  alfectionate,  and  by 
no  means  over-enlarged.  Memoirs  of  the  poet.  "  The  Prelude  "  also — a  poem  published  after  his  death,  but 
commenced  at  a  vei-y  early  period — "is  designed  to  exhibit  the  growth  of  his  mind  from  infancy  to  the  year  1799, 
when  he,  so  to  speak,  entered  upon  his  mission  and  ministry,  and  deliberately  resolved  to  devote  his  time  and 
faculties  to  the  art  and  office  of  a  poet."  But,  in  fact,  there  is  hardly  one  of  his  poems  that  does  not  give  us  some 
insight  into  his  thoughts,  feelings,  hopes,  and  aspirations— "  the  inner  man." 

U 


ago 


MEMORIES. 


1 


he  ever  yearned  for  his  native  vales.    Visiting  them  in  1788,  his  heart  was  won  to  his 
first  love,  and  with  few  brief  intervals  they  became  his  "  home  "  till  death  : — 

"  When  te  the  attractions  of  this  busy  world. 
Preferring  studious  lessons,  I  had  chosen 
A  habitation  in  this  i)eaceful  vale." 

"  The  child  is  father  of  the  man."  From  the  "  dawn  of  childhood  "  he  had  been 
sanctified  by  "  sweet  discipline  :  " — 

"  Not  with  the  mean  and  vulgar  works  of  man, 
But  with  high  objects  and  enduriag  things 
With  life  and  nature." 

Before  he  found  his  "loophole  of  retreat,"  he  had  other  "  discipline,"  painfnl  and 
humiliating,  but  which,  happily,  left  no  evil  influence  on  his  heart  and  mind.  While 
little  more  than  a  youth,  he  was  tainted  by  that  which  tainted  also  Southey  and 
Coleridge ;  he  avowed  himself  a  repubHcan,  an  enemy  to  hereditary  monarchy  and 
hereditary  peerage.     On  his  return  from  a  residence  in  France  he  writes, — 

"  I  brought  with  me  the  faith 
That  if  France  prospered,  good  men  would  not  long 
Pay  fruitless  worship  to  Humanity." 

He  was  soon  taught,  however,  by  a  merciful  Providence,  that  a  house  "  mortared 
with  blood  "  must  inevitably  fall ;  he  had  seen  the  wicked  Republic  only  begin  her 
"  maniac  dance,"  while  the  "  sleeping  snakes  were  covered  with  flowers  ;  "  when  "the 
atheist  crew  "  were  preparing  their  foul  orgies,  with  smiles  and  greetings  in  the  holy 
name  of  Liberty  : — 

"  When  blasts 
From  hell  came  sanctified  hie  airs  from  heaven ;" 

and  he  mournfully,  and  in  a  deeply  repentant  spirit,  writes,  that  when  thanksgivings 
for  victories  gained  by  the  arms  of  England  were  ofi"ered  up  in  her  churches, 

"  I  only,  like  an  uninvited  guest 
Whom  no  one  owned,  sate  silent." 

Yet  it  was  he  who,  in  after  life,  so  heroically  addressed  the 

"  Vanguard  of  Liberty — ye  men  of  Kent !  " 

when  threats  of  invasion  came  across  the  narrow  strait  that  divides  England  from 
France  ;  and  who,  in  1803,  exclaimed  with  all  his  heart  and  soul — 

"  Shout!  for  a  mighty  victory  is  won."  * 

He  was  not,  indeed,  as  Southey  was,  branded  as  "  a  renegade,"  for  the  even  tenor 
of  his  way  was  such  as  to  create  no  personal  or  political  enemies ;  but,  happily  for 

*  "  It  may,  perhaps,  be  interesting  to  you  to  be  informed  that  the  very  evening  before  I  received  your  last 
letter,  Mr.  Coleridge  and  I  had  a  long  conversation  upon  what  you,  with  great  propriety,  call  Jacobiaieal  pathos, 
and  I  can  assure  you  he  deeply  regretted  that  he  had  ever  written  a  single  word  of  that  character,  or  given,  directly 
or  indirectly,  any  encouragement  whatever  to  such  writings,  which  he  condemned  as  arguing  both  want  of  genius 
and  of  knowledge.  He  pointed  out  as  worthy  of  the  severest  reprehension  the  conduct  of  those  writers  who  seem 
to  estimate  their  power  of  exciting  sorrow  for  suffering  humanity  by  the  quantity  of  hatred  and  revenge  which  they 
are  able  to  pour  into  the  hearts  of  their  readers.  Pity,  we  argued,  is  a  sacred  thing  that  cannot  and  will  not  be 
profaned.  Mr.  C.  is  as  deeply  convinced  as  myself  that  the  human  heart  can  never  be  moved  to  any  salutary 
purposes  in  this  way,  and  that  they  who  attempt  to  give  it  such  movements  ai-e  poisoners  of  its  best  feelings.  They 
are  bad  poets  and  misguided  men."  (From  a  letter— inedited— from  Wordsworth  to  John  Taylor,  dated  Grasmere, 
April  9th,  1801,  in  the  collection  of  the  late  John  Dillon,  which  that  gentleman  kindly  permitted  me  to  extract.) 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH.  291 


himself  and  for  mankind,  tlie  Laureate  Wordsworth  was  as  thorough  an  "  apostate  " 
from  the  devilish  faith  of  his  youthood  as  was  the  Laureate  Southey. 

There  is  not  much  to  tell  of  the  earlier  years  of  the  poet ;  he  was  drinking  his  fill 
from  the  pure  fountain  of  Nature  ;  grounding  himself  to  become  her  great  High  Priest ; 
learning  from  the  Book  that  cannot  be  closed  to  the  student ;  preparing  to  spread  for 
Humanity  a  feast  that  never  satiates,  and  to  make  millions  after  millions  his  debtors 
for  delights  enjoyed,  instruction  received,  and  benefits  incalculable  conferred  on  the 
whole  human  family. 

Just  at  the  most  critical  period  of  his  life,  when  his  prospects  were  so  little  cheer- 
ing that,  it  is  said,  he  was  seeking  employment  in  connection  with  the  London  press, 
a  friend  died,  and  left  him  a  considerable  sum  of  money.     That  "  event" — for  such 


it  was no  doubt  determined  the  after  career  of  the  poet ;  it  gave  him  vigour  for  the 

race  that  was  set  before  him,  armed  him  for  the  fight  of  life,  enabled  him  to  array 

"  His  temples  with  the  Muse's  diadem." 

"  That  friend  bore  the  name  of  Calvert" — Kaisley  Calvert — and  no  Memory  of 
the  poet  can  be  without  an  expression  of  gratitude  to  him : — 

"  He  cleared  a  passage  for  me,  and  the  stream 
Flowed  in  the  bent  of  Nature." 

Other  aids  came  from  other  friends.  Good  Sir  George  Beaumont,  who  some 
years  before  had  warned  the  painter  Haydon  against  "  the  terrific  democratic  notions 
of  William  Wordsworth,"  bequeathed  to  him  an  annuity ;  he  was  appointed  to  the 
office  of  "  Stamp  Distributor"  for  his  native  county;  was  placed  on  the  "  Pension - 
list,"  the  record  of  England's  meagre  boons  to  her  worthies ;  ultimately  he  became 
Poet  Laureate,  and  throughout  his  long  life  was,  in  a  word,  independent. 

"  Blessed  be  the  God 
Of  Nature  and  of  man  that  this  was  so." 

u  2 


292 


MEMORIES. 


1 


He  never  felt,  as  so  many  poets  have  felt, 

"  The  influence  of  malignant  star  ;" 

never  toiled  for  the  bread  that  is  often  bitter  to  the  high  of  soul ;  it  was  not  his 
destiny  to 

"  Learn  in  suffering  what  he  taught  in  song." 

In  1799  Wordsworth  first  found  a  home  at  Town-end,  Grasmere — a  comparatively 
humble  cottage.  In  1802  he  was  married  to  Mary  Hutchinson ;  they  had  known 
each  other  from  childhood,  and  had  been  playfellows  in  youth.  In  1808  they 
removed  to  Allan  Bank,  near  at  hand,  and  in  1813  to  Rydal  Mount,  a  house  that  any 
pilgrim  to  English  shrines  may  yet  visit — a  house  that,  if  it  perish,  can  never  be  for- 


THB   HOUSE   IN  WHICH   WOEDSWOETH   WAS   BORN. 


gotten.     There,  for  thirty-seven  years,  they  lived  ;  and  there,  on  the  23rd  of  April, 
1850,  his  spirit  was  called  from  earth. 

There  was  another  light  in  his  home  beside  that  which  was  sent  to  be  the  darling 
of  his  heart ;  a  "  phantom  of  delight,"  his  "  second-self  :  " — 

"A  creature,  not  too  bright  or  good, 
For  human  nature's  daily  food ; " 

his  companion,  his  friend,  his  adviser,  his  encourager,  his  comforter,  his  trust,  his 
hope,  and  his  wife.*'     They  had  five  children,  two  of  whom,  Thomas  and  Catherine, 


*  Of  the  wife  of  Wordsworth,  De  Quincey  thus  writes  :— "  She  furnished  a  remarkable  proof  how  possible  it  is 
for  a  woman  neither  handsome  nor  even  comely,  according  to  the  rigour  of  criticism,  to  exercise  all  the  practical 
fascination  of  beauty,  through  the  mere  compensating  charms  of  sweetness  all  but  'angelic,'  of  simplicity  the  most 
entire  womanly  self-respect  and  purity  of  heart,  speaking  through  all  her  looks,  words,  and  movements." 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH. 


293 


died  young  ;  "  sweet  Dora  "  became  the  wife  of  Mr.  Quillinan  ;  and  of  his  surviving 
sons,  William,  the  second,  became  Distributor  of  Stamps,  residing  at  Carlisle  ;  the 
eldest,  John,  the  Eeetor  of  Plumbland  and  Vicar  of  Brigham,  Cumberland. 

Quillinan  was  under  sixty  when  he  died — in  1851.  His  first  wife  was  a  daughter 
of  Sir  Egerton  Bridges.  He  was  Irish  by  birth  and  descent,  and  was  bred  a  Koman 
Catholic  ;  but  the  shackles  of  his  church  hung  loosely  about  him,  and  he  was  a 
Liberal,  at  least  in  creed.  He  was  esteemed  by  all  who  knew  him,  and  dearly  loved 
in  the  family  of  the  poet.     His  own  poems  were  of  a  high,  if  not  of  the  highest  order  ; 


KYDAL   MOUNT. 


and  he  would,  no  doubt,  have  taken  rank  in  the  world  of  letters,  if  circumstances  had 
made  his  position  depend  on  his  writings. 

The  "  other  light"  was  his  sister  Dorothy,—"  Dorothea,  given  of  God."  Matronly 
duties  never  called  her  from  his  side  ;  from  his  earliest  boyhood,  from  the  time  when 
his  mother's  prophecy  was  uttered,  "  William  will  be  remarkable  either  for  good  or 
for  evil,"  she  had  been  ever  near  him  : — 

"  The  blessing  of  my  later  years 
Was  with  me  when  I  was  a  boy." 

To  the  poet,  who  loved  her  with  devout  affection,  she  was  a  perpetual  blessing ; 
it  was  she  who,  in  his  early  days  of  peril, 

"  Maintained  for  me  a  saving  interooui'Se 
With  my  tme  self." 


To  her  lie  owed  much,  and  to  her,  therefore,  mankind  owes  much.     "  She  gave  me," 
writes  the  poet, — 

"  She  gave  me  eyes,  she  gave  me  ears, 
And  humble  cares,  and  delicate  fears, 
A  heart,  the  fountain  of  sweet  tears. 
And  love,  and  thought,  and  joy." 

She  did  more  than  that :  she  dispelled  foreboding  shadows  ;  "  softened  down  an 
over- sternness  ;"  planted  the  rock  with  flowers  ;  and  the  heart  that  might  have  been 
biassed  to  evil — indeed,  at  one  time  the  peril  was  great — she  led,  God-guided,  into 
the  pleasant  paths  of  Peace,  and  Love,  and  Hope,  and  Joy.  We  have  not  only  the 
poet's  tribute  to  this  guardian  and  ministering  angel ;  De  Quincey,  who  knew  her 
well,  and  it  is  said  worshipped  her  as  "  a  star  apart,"  testifies  to  her  quick  and  ready 
sympathy  with  every  living  thing.  And  when  Wordsworth  brought  his  wife  to  be 
the  house-mate  of  his  sister,  she  became  the  true  friend  of  the  one  as  she  was  the 
true  friend  of  the  other. 

There  are  few  of  what  are  termed  "  leading  incidents  "  in  the  poet's  after  life. 
In  1842  he  resigned  his  office  of  Stamp  Distributor  in  favour  of  his  son  WiUiam,  and 
received  from  Sir  Robert  Peel  one  of  the  Crown  pensions,  d£300  a  year — "  part  of  the 
limited  fund  which  Parliament  has  placed  at  the  disposal  of  the  Crown,  on  the  con- 
dition that  it  shall  be  applied  to  the  reward  and  encouragement  of  public  service,  or  of 
eminent  literary  and  scientific  merit," 

On  the  death  of  Southey,  in  1843,  he  was  appointed  Poet  Laureate.  The  office 
was  at  first  declined,  but  Sir  Eobert  Peel  pressed  its  acceptance,  writing  him  that 
"  the  offer  was  made,  not  as  imposing  any  onerous  or  disagreeable  duty,  but  as  a 
tribute  of  respect  which  is  justly  due  to  the  first  of  living  poets,"  And  Wordsworth's 
reply  was — •"  The  being  deemed  worthy  to  succeed  my  lamented  and  valued  friend, 
Southey,  enhances  the  pleasure  I  receive."*'  In  1845  he  visited  London  to  "kiss 
hands,"  and  it  must  have  been  a  touching  sight  when  the  venerable  white-haired  man 
bent  his  knee  to  the  young  Queen,  then  barely  commencing  a  reign  which  has  been 
so  fruitful  of  blessings  over  a  realm  on  which  "  the  sun  never  sets." 

Soon  after  his  eightieth  birthday  his  warning  came. 

When  his  mind  was  losing  consciousness,  his  venerable  wife  said  to  him, 
"  William,  you  are  going  to  Dora  "^ — his  beloved  daughter.  The  words  were  at  the 
time  unheeded,  but  next  day,  when  some  one  drew  aside  the  curtain,  he  murmured, 
"  Is  that  Dora  ?  "  And  who  will  venture  to  say  it  was  not  Dora,  "  sent  of  God  "  to 
companion  him  from  earth  to  heaven,  who  stood,  in  the  spirit,  at  that  moment  by  the 
side  of  him  to  whom  Death  was  giving  Freedom  and  Life  ? 

"  Hast  thou  been  told  that  from  the  viewless  bourne, 
The  dark  way  never  hath  allowed  return  1 
That  all.  which  tears  can  move,  -with  life  is  fled, 
That  earthly  love  is  powerless  on  the  dead  2 
Believe  it  not!"  t 


*  Wordsworth,  in  a  letter  to  James  Montgomery,  says,  "  It  has  afforded  me  a  melancholy  pleasure  to  be  thought 
worthy  of  succeeding  my  reverend  friend." 

t  "  I  never  fear  to  avow  my  belief  that  warnings  from  the  other  world  are  sometimes  communicated  to  us  in 
this :  and  that,  absurd  as  the  stories  of  apparitions  generally  are,  they  are  not  always  false,  but  that  the  spirits  of 
the  dead  have  sometimes  been  permitted  to  appear.  I  believe  this,  because  I  cannot  refuse  my  assent  to  the 
evidence  which  exists  of  such  things,  and  to  the  universal  consent  of  all  men  who  have  not  learnt  to  think  otherwise. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH.  295 


He  died  on  the  23rd  of  April,  1850,  passing  away  almost  insensibly  while  the 
cuckoo  clock  was  striking  the  hour  of  twelve  at  noon. 

Thirty  years  before,  the  poet  had  received  high  promptings  from  that  familiar 
sound — the  cuckoo  clock  ;  and  such  thoughts  as  he  breathed  then — so  long  ago — may 
have  solaced  the  last  moments  of  his  earthly  life  : — 

"  Well  may  our  hearts  have  faith  that  blessings  come 
Streaming  from  founts  ahove  the  starry  sky, 
With  ang-els  when  their  own  untroubled  home 
They  leave,  and  speed  on  nightly  embassy 
To  visit  earthly  chambers— and  for  whom  ? 
Yea,  both  for  souls  who  God's  forbearance  try, 
And  those  who  seek  His  help  and  for  His  mercy  sigh." 

"  So  lived  he  till  his  eightieth  year  was  past ;"  in  venerable  age,  as  in  energetic 
youth,  labouring  to  give  "delights"  that  will  be  healthy  stimulants*  for  ever  and  ever. 

Such  is  an  outline — and  it  may  suffice — of  the  long,  yet  comparatively  undisturbed, 
even,  and  uneventful  life  of  the  poet,  William  Wordsworth. 

His  person  and  his  character  have  both  been  abundantly  portrayed  by  his  con- 
temporaries. In  middle  life  Hazlitt  thus  pictured  him  :  "He  reminds  one  of  some 
of  Holbein's  heads,  grave,  saturnine,  with  a  slight  indication  of  sly  humour."  At  a  period 
somewhat  later,  Wilson,  in  the  "  Noctes,"  says,  "  The  eyes  were  dim  and  thoughtful, 
and  a  certain  sweetness  of  smile  occasionally  lighted  up  the  strong  lines  of  his  counte- 
nance with  an  expression  of  courteousness  and  philanthropy."  Lockhart,  in  "  Peter's 
Letters,"  notes  "  his  large,  dim,  pensive  eye,"  his  "  smile  of  placid  abstraction,"  and 
"  his  long,  tremulous,  melancholy  lips."  And  thus  De  Quincey  writes  :  "  Many  such 
heads,  and  finer,  have  I  seen  among  the  portraits  of  Titian,  and  in  a  later  period 
among  those  of  Vandyke,  but  none  that  has  more  impressed  me  in  my  time."  "  It 
was  a  face  of  the  long  order."  "  His  eyes  small,  rather  than  large  ;  not  under  any 
circumstances  bright,  lustrous,  or  piercing,"  yet  often  "  solemn  and  spiritual;"  send- 
ing forth  "  a  light  that  seemed  to  come  from  unfathomed  depths  ;"  "  the  nose  a  little 
large  and  arched."  He  was  tall — five  feet  eleven  inches — but  seemed  taller  when  he 
stood  or  sat,  although  "  in  walking  he  had  a  slouched  or  sliding  gait  that  took  from 
his  height."  Thus  Leigh  Hunt  pictures  him:  "  I  never  beheld  eyes  that  looked  so 
inspired  or  supernatural.  They  were  like  fires  half  burning,  half  smouldering,  with 
a  sort  of  acrid  fixture  of  regard,  and  seated  at  the  further  end  of  two  caverns.  One 
might  imagine  Ezekiel  or  Isaiah  to  have  had  such  eyes."  He  adds,  "  He  had  a 
dignified  manner,  with  a  deep  and  roguish,  hut  not  unpleasing  voice,  and  an  exalted 
mode  of  speaking."  In  later  life  one  of  his  acquaintances  writes  of  "  his  venerable  head ; 
his  simple,  natural,  and  graceful  attitude  in  his  own  chair  ;  his  respectful  attention 
to  the  slightest  remarks  or  suggestions  of  others  in  relation  to  what  was  spoken  of ; 
his  kindly  benevolence  of  expression  as  he  looked  round  now  and  then  on  the  circle." 
His   nephew.  Bishop  Wordsworth,  writes  of  "  the  broad,  full  forehead,  the  silver 


Perhaps  you  will  not  despise  this  as  a  mere  superstition,  when  I  say  that  Kant,  the  profoundest  thmker  of  modern 
ages,  came,  by  the  severest  reasoning,  to  the  same  conclusion.  But  if  these  things  are,  then  there  is  a  state  at.er 
death  :  and  it  there  be  a  state  after  death,  it  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  such  things  should  be.  -BoUH  Southey 

"  Wordsworth,  writing  of  himself  in  1845,  when  his  poems  were  to  him  as  so  many  memories,  speaks  ot 
"  the  spirituaUty  with  which  I  have  endeavoured  to  invest  the  material  universe,  and  the  moral  relations  under 
which  1  have  wished  to  exhibit  its  most  ordinary  appearances." 


296  MEMORIES. 


hair,  tlie  deep  and  varied  intonations  of  the  voice."  An  American  writer  describes 
his  eyes  in  his  eightieth  year  as  giving  to  his  countenance  its  high  intellectual  expres- 
sion.* 

Such,  according  to  these  authorities,  was  the  "  outer  man,"  Wordsworth.  Having 
quoted  them,  I  scruple  to  give  my  own  portrait ;  yet  I  must  do  so,  as  I  drew  it  in 
1832,  during  one  of  his  brief  visits  to  London, 

His  features  were  large,  and  not  suddenly  expressive  ;  they  conveyed  little  idea 
of  the  "  poetic  fire  "  usually  associated  with  brilliant  imagination.  His  eyes  were  mild 
and  up-looking,  his  mouth  coarse  rather  than  refined,  his  forehead  high  rather  than 
broad  ;  but  every  action  seemed  considerate,  and  every  look  self-possessed,  while  his 
voice,  low  in  tone,  had  that  persuasive  eloquence  which  invariably  "moves  men." 

Perhaps  it  was  impossible  to  find  two  men  whose  "  faces  "  more  thoroughly 
difi'ered  than  did  those  of  Southey  and  Wordsworth. 

Wanderers  in  Westmoreland  will  see  the  same  type  in  every  third  peasant  they 
meet  :  a  face  long  and  narrow,  a  forehead  high,  a  long  and  rather  aquiline  nose, 
with  eyes  meek  and  gentle,  expressing  little  strength,  and  nothing  of  strong  passion. 

There  are  many  portraits  of  him.  He  "  believed  he  had  sat  twenty  times."  That 
which  I  prefer,  excepting,  perhaps,  the  bust  by  Thrupp,  which  brings  him  more 
thoroughly  before  me,  is  by  Pickersgill,  painted  for  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge, 
and  which  Wordsworth  himself  greets  in  some  lines  : — 

"  Go  faithful  portrait,"  &c. 

It  is  the  portrait  J.  have  engraved  at  the  head  of  this  Memory,  and  which  I  also 
engraved  (full  length)  in  the  "  Book  of  Gems  ;"  it  was  painted  sitting  under  a  rock 
at  the  side  of  a  mountain.!  That  by  the  American  artist,  Inman,  seems  to  have  been 
the  one  he  and  his  family  liked  best.  It  was  that,  or  rather  a  copy  of  it,  which  hung 
in  his  own  dining-room.  Wordsworth  writes  about  "  an  engraving,  from  a  picture 
by  Mr.  Hay  don,  of  me  in  the  act  of  climbing  Helvellyn."  I  have  never  seen  it. 
Southey  says  that  Hazlitt  painted  a  portrait  of  Wordsworth  so  "  dismally,"  that  on 
seeing  it,  one  of  his  friends  exclaimed — "At  the  gallows,  deeply  afi"ected  by  his 
deserved  fate,  yet  determined  to  die  like  a  man." 

To  "  the  inner  man  " — Wordsworth — there  are  abundant  testimonies.  Coleridge, 
when  he  first  knew  Wordsworth  in  early  youth,  at  Allfoxden,  says,  "  Whose  society 
I  found  an  invaluable  blessing,  and  to  whom  I  looked  up  with  equal  reverence  as  a 
poet,  a  philosopher,  and  a  man ;"  and  he  writes  to  Cottle,  about  the  same  period,  "He  is 
one  whom,  God  knows,  I  love  and  honour  as  far  beyond  myself  as  both  morally  and 
intellectually  he  is  above  me."  Thus  Lockhart — "  Peter's  Letters  " — "  His  poetry 
is  the  poetry  of  external  nature  and  profound  feeling,  and  such  is  the  hold  which 
these  high  themes  have  taken  of  his  intellect,  that  he  seldom  dreams  of  descending  to 

*  Another  American,  Emerson,  in  1833,  styles  him  "a  plain,  elderly,  white-haired  man,  not  preposessing,  and 
disfigured  by  green  goggles."  Emerson  saw  him  again  in  1846,  and  says,  "  He  had  a  healthy  look,  with  a  weather- 
beaten  face,  his  face  corrugated,  especially  the  large  nose."  But  it  is  clear  that  Wordsworth  excited  no  reverence 
in  the  mind  of  Emerson  ;  if  that  clear-sighted  and  cold-reasoning  man  had  hero-worship,  it  was  not  for  the  poet. 

+  Of  Pickersgill's  portrait  of  Wordsworth,  Crabb  Robinson  wi'ites,  "  It  is  in  every  respect  a  fine  picture,  except 
that  the  artist  has  made  the  disease  in  Wordsworth's  eyes  too  apparent."  I  confess  that  did  not  strike  me  ;  neither 
can  I  say  what  Crabb  Robinson  means. 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH.  297 

the  tone  in  which  the  ordinary  conversation  of  men  is  pitched."  Haydon  thus  speaks 
of  Wordsworth  :  "  With  his  usual  cheerfulness,  he  delighted  us  by  his  bursts  of 
inspiration;"  and  adds,  "  His  purity  of  heart,  his  kindness,  his  soundness  of  prin- 
ciple, his  information,  his  knowledge,  and  the  intense  and  eager  feeling  with  which 
he  pours  forth  all  he  knows,  interest  and  enchant  me;"  and  again,  "  He  follows 
Nature  like  an  apostle,  sharing  her  solemn  moods  and  impressions."  This  is  the 
testimony  of  his  old  and  familiar  friend,  Southey  :  "  The  strength  and  the  character 
of  his  mind  you  see  in  '  The  Excursion  '  " — "  The  Prelude  "  then  existed  only  in  MS. 
■  — "  and  his  life  does  not  belie  his  writings,  for  in  every  relation  of  it,  and  in  every 
point  of  view,  he  is  a  truly  exemplary  and  admirable  man." 

Bishop  Wordsworth  wrote  these  lines  in  a  volume  of  his  uncle's  poems  : — 
"  In  diction,  in  nature,  in  grace,  in  variety,  in  purity,  in  philosophy,  in  morals, 
in  piety,  does  he  not  surpass  all  our  writers  ?  " 

This  is  Mrs.  Hemans'  compliment  to  Wordsworth  : — 

"  True  bard,  and  holy !  thou  art  even  as  one 
Who  by  some  secret  gift  of  soul  or  eye, 
In  every  spot  beneath  the  smiling  sun, 
Sees  where  the  springs  of  living  waters  lie." 

She  also  describes  him  in  prose  : — "  There  is  an  almost  patriarchal  simplicity  about 
him — an  absence  of  all  pretension  ;  all  is  free,  unstudied, — 

'  The  river  winding  at  its  own  sweet  wiU,' 

in  his  manner  and  conversation.  There  is  more  of  impulse  about  him  than  I  had 
expected,  but  in  other  respects  I  see  much  that  I  should  have  looked  for  in  the  poet 
of  meditative  life ;  frequently  his  head  droops,  his  eyes  half  close,  and  he  seems 

buried  in  quiet  depths  of  thought His  reading  is  very  peculiar  ;  but  to  my 

ear,  delightful,  slow,  solemn,  earnest  in  expression,  more  than  any  I  have  ever  heard. 
When  he  reads  or  recites  in  the  open  air,  his  deep,  rich  tones  seem  to  proceed  from 
a  spirit-voice,  and  belong  to  the  religion  of  the  place — they  harmonise  so  fitly  with 
the  thrilling  tones  of  woods  and  waterfalls."  And  again  she  says,  "  His  voice  has 
something  quite  breeze-like  in  the  soft  gradation  of  its  swells  and  falls."  "  His  manners 
are  distinguished  by  that  frank  simplicity  which  I  believe  to  be  ever  the  characteristic 
of  real  genius ;  his  conversation  is  perfectly  free  and  unaffected,  yet  remarkable  for 
power  of  expression  and  vivid  imagery."  She  speaks  also  of  his  gentle  and  affectionate 
playfulness  in  his  intercourse  with  all  the  members  of  his  family.  "  There  is  a  daily 
beauty  in  his  life,  which  is  in  such  lovely  harmony  with  his  poetry,  that  I  am  thankful 
to  have  witnessed  and  felt  it." 

"  True  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and  Home." 

Sir  John  McNeill,  proposing  the  health  of  Wordsworth  at  the  Burns  Festival, 
thus  spoke  of  him  :  "  Dwelling  in  his  high  and  lofty  philosophy,  he  finds  nothing 
that  G-od  has  made  common  or  unclean  ;  he  finds  nothing  in  human  society  too 
humble,  nothing  in  external  nature  too  lowly,  to  be  made  the  fit  exponent  of  the 


bounty  and  goodness  of  the  Most  Higli."  I  copy  these  lines  from  a  poem  by  Laman 
Blanchard  : — 

"  Wio  looked  on  common  life,  with  all  its  care, 
And  found  a  beauty  and  a  blessing  there ; 
Who  steered  his  com'se  by  Nature's  sacred  chart, 
And  shed  a  halo  round  the  human  heart." 

And  Talfourd,  in  the  course  of  a  speech  in  the  House  of  Commons  in  1837,  thus 
spoke  of  him  :  "  He  has  supplied  the  noblest  antidote  to  the  freezing  effects  of  the 
scientific  spirit  of  the  age,  and  while  he  has  done  justice  to  the  poetry  of  greatness, 
has  cast  a  glory  round  the  lowest  conditions  of  humanity,  and  traced  out  the  subtle 
links  by  which  they  are  connected  with  the  highest.     His  habits  were  almost  those 


THE   CHDECH  AT   GBASMESB. 


of  an  anchorite  ;  he  had  no  artificial  wants  ;  his  luxuries  were  those  which  abundant 
Nature  supplied — 

'  Eich  in  the  wealth 
Which  is  collected  among  woods  and  fields.' " 

It  may  be  that  his  intense  love  of  nature  induced  forgetfulness  of  that  eternal 
truth — 

"  The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man  ;  "  * 


*  Yet  Mrs.  Hemans  tells  us  that  when  "  pestered  with  albums  "  he  found  it  convenient  to  administer  the  same 
line  to  all  patients  :— 

"  The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man." 

He  did  not  so  summarily  dismiss  Mrs.  Hall's  Album,  writing  there  the  lines  beginning— 

"  She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways, 
Beside  the  springs  of  Dove  ;" 

writing  them,  I  am  proud  to  say,  when  seated  at  her  own  library  table. 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH.  299 


for  he  mixed  but  little  with  society,  and  his  happiest  hours  were  those  he  passed  "  at 
home,"  in  the  bosom  of  a  family  by  whom  he  was  reverenced  as  well  as  loved,  and 
among  a  few  chosen  friends  by  whom  he  was  almost  adored. 

I  may,  perhaps,  venture  to  give  my  own  appreciation  of  his  character  as  I  wrote 
it  ("  Book  of  Gems  ")  in  1837.     I  know  it  gave  the  poet  pleasure.* 

"  The  style  of  Wordsworth  is  essentially  vernacular,  at  once  vigorous  and  simple. 
He  is  ever  true  to  nature,  and  therefore,  if  we  except  Shakspeare,  no  writer  is  so 
often  quoted  ;  passages  from  his  poems  have  become  familiar  as  household  words, 
and  are  perpetually  called  into  use  to  give  strong  and  apt  expression  to  the  thoughts 
and  feelings  of  others.  This  is,  perhaps,  the  highest  compliment  a  poet  can  receive  ; 
it  has  been  liberally  paid  to  him  even  by  those  who  knew  little  of  the  rich  mine  of 
which  they  are  but  specimens.     With  him  the  commonest  objects — 

'  Bare  trees,  and  mountains  bare, 
The  grass,  and  the  green  fields ' — 

are  things  sacred  :  he  has  an  alchemy  of  his  own,  by  which  he  draws  from  them  '  a 
kind  of  quintessence,'  and  rejecting  the  '  gross  matter,'  exhibits  to  us  the  present 
ore.  He  sees  nothing  loftier  than  human  hopes — nothing  deeper  than  the  human 
heart ;  and  while  he  worships  nature,  he  so  paints  her  aspect  to  others  that  he  may 
succeed  in  '  linking  to  her  fair  works  the  human  soul.'  His  poems  are  full  of  beauties 
peculiarly  their  own,  of  original  thoughts,  of  fine  sympathies,  and  of  grave  yet  cheer- 
ful wisdom." 

My  readers  will  not  consider  out  of  place  some  touching  and  eloquent  lines^ 
written  on  visiting  the  scenes  of  the  poet's  triumphs,  by  the  late  John  Dillon,  Esq., 
a  gentleman  who,  in  the  active  discharge  of  duties  connected  with  commercial  life, 
had  leisure  to  cultivate  and  cherish  the  arts  that  refine  and  elevate,  and  did  not  find 
the  labours  incident  to  trade  antagonistic  to  the  enjoyments  derivable  from  inter- 
course with  the  Muses. 

"  I  understand  him  better,  that  I've  seen 
His  mountains  and  his  valleys,  and  those  lakes, 
The  near  lake  and  the  distant ;  sate  me  down 
In  his  own  garden,  where  he  thought  and  felt ; 
For  thought  to  him  was  feeling  ;  seen  his  house. 
Tasted  the  freshness  of  the  au-  he  breathed, 
And  knew  the  world  he  lived  in,  sung,  and  loved ; 
Beheld  that  purple  mountain,  those  green  hills. 


Nature  to  him  was  faith,  and  earth  a  heaven. 
Man  was  to  him  a  shepherd  on  the  fells, 
And  human  life  the  grey  and  winding  path 
That  wanders  up  the  mountains,  and  then  fades 
In  mist  and  distance 

His  mind  was  as  that  flying  cloud  of  light 
Which  rushes  o'er  the  mountains  and  the  plains, 
Then  mingles  in  the  waters  like  a  dream. 
The  earth  and  skies,  the  sunshine  and  the  storm, 
The  mighty  mountain  and  the  gurgling  stream, 
Pell  on  his  vision,  till  his  sense  became 
All  eyesight 


*  In  a  letter  to  me  (dated  December  23, 1837)  he  writes,  in  reference  to  my  memoir  of  him,  "  Absurdly  unreason- 
able would  it  be  in  me  if  I  were  not  satisfied  with  your  notice  of  my  writings  and  character.  AU  I  can  further  say 
is,  that  I  have  wished  both  to  be  what  you  indulgently  say  they  are." 


30O  MEMORIES. 


1 


A  mind  like  his 
Sees  in  the  merest  nook  where  verdure  dwells 
The  smallest  ilower  that  springs  there,  and  the  dew, 
The  single  dewdrop  that  weighs  down  its  lids, 
Eioh  specimens  of  nature,  to  be  kept 
And  hoarded  'raid  the  treasures  of  his  thoughts 
Even  as  a  wonder,  and  a  proof  of  God." 

The  poet's  *'  ways  "  were,  of  course,  familiar  in  the  neighbourhood  where  he  had 
lived  so  long.  A  good  walker,  he  was  acquainted  with  every  spot  within  twenty 
miles  of  him,*  and  he  was  often  found  a  stroller  at  night.  The  people  used  to  hear 
him  "  maundering"  about  the  roads,,  talking  to  himself — composing,  of  course  ;  but 
much  of  his  poetry  was  produced  while  moving  up  and  down  "  the  Poet's  Walk" — 
the  walk  that  led  from  his  hall-door  to  the  end  of  the  plantation. 

Neighbours,  when  they  saw  him  pacing  the  floor  of  his  "  study,"  which  was  ever 
out  of  doors,  used  to  say,  as  they  listened  to  his  solemn  voice,  "  Ah  !  there  he  is — 
maundering  about  again  !"  Ay,  he  was  drinking  deep  draughts  from  that  eternal 
fountain  that  furnished  living  water  to  mankind.  His  mind  was  ranging  over  the 
whole  domain  of  nature,  while  on-lookers  thought  him  an  idler  on  the  waste  of  life  ; 
intensely  enjoying  all  that  met  his  eye  or  ear,  and  revelling  in  sights  and  sounds  to 
which  many  of  those  about  him  were  blind  and  deaf.f 

It  is  notorious  that  the  poet  lived  to  be  an  old  man  before  the  world  had  learned 
to  appreciate  his  genius.  Yet  so  early  as  1804  this  is  the  opinion  of  Southey,  the 
soundest  and  safest,  while  the  most  generous,  of  critics  : — "  He  will  rank  among  the 
very  first  poets,  and  probably  possesses  a  mass  of  merits  superior  to  all,  except  only 
Shakspeare."  Again  he  writes,  in  reference  to  Wordsworth's  "Lyrical  Ballads," 
"  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  in  the  whole  compass  of  poetry,  ancient  or  modern, 
there  is  no  collection  of  miscellaneous  poems  comparable  to  them,  nor  any  work 
whatever  which  discovers  greater  strength  of  mind,  or  higher  poetical  genius."  And 
apain,  "  It  is  by  the  side  of  Milton  that  Wordsworth  will  have  his  station  awarded 
by  posterity."  \ 

But  Southey  was  one  of  the  very  "  few  ;"  Charles  Lamb  did,  indeed,  greet  him 
with  the 

"  AU  hail  hereafter ! " 

and  De  Quincey,  when  a  youth,  worshipped  at  his  shrine.     Yet,  although  from  the 


*  "  I  calculate,"  writes  De  Guincey,  "  that  Wordsworth  must  have  travelled  180,000  miles  on  his  legs  ;  a  mode 
of  exertion  which,  to  him,  stood  in  the  stead  of  alcohol  and  all  other  stimulants  whatsoever  to  the  animal  spirits." 

i-  Yet  in  Wordsworth  nature  was,  at  one  opening,  quite  shut  out.  Southey  tells  us  that  "  Wordsworth  has 
no  sense  of  smell.  Once,  and  once  only,  in  his  lite,  the  dormant  power  awakened.  It  was  by  a  bed  of  stocks  in  full 
bloom  •  and  he  says  it  was  like  a  vision  of  paradise  to  him  ;  but  it  lasted  only  a  few  minutes,  and  the  faculty  has 
since  continued  torpid."  Mr.  Charles  Kent,  one  of  the  later  friends  of  Leigh  Hunt,  tells  us  he  had  a  similar  defect, 
the  ioy  that  is  given  by  sweet  scents  having  been  denied  to  him. 

%  Southey  was,  however,  as  fxilly  aware  as  any  critic  that  the  friend  he  loved  was  not  without  "  fault."  In  a 
letter  from  Southey  to  Miss  Seward  (dated  December  10,  1807),  lent  to  me  by  Mr.  DiUon,  I  found  the  following 
remarks  on  Wordsworth : — "  You  speak  of  Wordsworth's  poems  as  I  should  expect,  faii-ly  appreciating  their  defects 
and  excellencies.  William  Wordsworth  is  a  most  extraordinary  man,  one  whose  powers  as  a  poet  it  is  not  possible 
to  overrate  and  who  will  stand  in  the  first  rank  of  poets.  It  is  the  vice  of  his  intellect  to  be  always  upon  the 
stretch  and'strain— to  look  at  pileworts  and  daffodowndUlies  through  the  same  telescope  which  he  applies  to  the 
moon  and  stars,  and  to  find  subjects  for  philosophising  and  fine  feeling,  just  as  Don  Quixote  did  for  chivalry,  in 
every  peasant  and  vagabond  he  meets.  Had  I  been  his  adviser,  part  of  his  last  volume  would  have  been  suppressed. 
The  storm  of  ridicule  which  it  would  draw  down  might  have  been  foreseen  ;  and  he  is  foolishly,  and  even  diseasedly, 
fensitive  to  the  censure  which  he  despises,  like  one  who  is  flea-bitten  into  a  fever.  But  what  must  that  blindness 
of  the  heart  be  which  is  dead  to  the  noble  poetry  contained  in  these  volumes  ?" 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH.  ■  301 


beginning  he  "  fit  audience  found," '^^  and  was  ever  emphatically  "  a  poet  for  poets," 
Fame  was  slow  with  acknowledgment,  and  tardy  with  reward  ;  and  he  was  aged 
before  his  recognition  as  a  poet  for  universal  man.  For  many  years,  with  a  con- 
sciousness of  power  not  to  be  suppressed,  he  lived  with  a  knowledge  that  he  was 
"  scorned."  The  word  is  not  too  strong  to  express  the  general  sentiment  with 
which  he  was  regarded.  All  the  critics  were  "  down  upon  him."  The  "  oracles  " 
were  not  merely  dumb:  they  jeered,  they  pitied,  and  thought  they  paid  him  but 
fairly,  and  dealt  with  him  only  leniently,  when  they  gave  him  contempt  for  the 
"  puerilities"  and  "  absurdities"  that  most  of  them  lived  to  see  immortalities. t 

No  wonder  that  intercourse  with  humanity  became  distasteful  to  him ;  that  he 
sought,  instead,  converse  with  nature — the  vales,  and  skies,  and — "  common  things  !  " 

Not  only  were  the  critics  his  foes ;  even  loving  friends  often  shook  their  heads, 
and  smiled  at  the  poet's  simplicity  in  fancying  the  world  could  ever  accept  verses 
such  as  his.  One  of  them  ventured  to  intimate  that  among  the  lyrics  there  was  a 
piece  that  at  all  events  ought  to  be  cancelled,  as  the  printing  of  it  would  make  the 
writer  "  everlastingly  ridiculous."  It  was  the  poem  "  We  are  Seven,"  which  is  now 
placed  among  the  most  touching  and  delicious  poems  in  the  language  of  our  land. 

The  "  Lyrical  Ballads,"  published  originally  in  1798,  was  an  edition  of  five 
hundred  copies.  "  The  sale  was  so  slow,"  arising  from  "  the  severity  of  reviewers," 
that  its  progress  to  oblivion  seemed  certain.  When  the  pubHsher,  Cottle,  sold  his 
copyrights  to  Longman,  that  copyright  was  valued  at  nil,  and  was  given  back  to 
Cottle  for  nothing,  as  of  no  worth,  who  gave  it  to  the  author  on  the  same  terms. 
''  This  will  never  do,"  wrote  Jeffrey,  idth  admuahle  jyi'escience,  when  reviewing  "  The 
Excursion;"  and  in  reference  to  the  critic's  opinion  of  the  poet,  Lamb  writes  to 
Southey,  "  Jeff"rey  is  resolved  to  crush  it."  "He  crush  'The  Excursion!'" 
exclaimed  the  Laureate  ;  "  tell  him  he  can  as  easily  crush  Skiddaw  !  "  That  most 
wonderfully  sweet  and  powerful  poem  (there  are  tens  of  thousands  who  consider  it 
fulfils  the  prophecy  of  Southey,  and  gives  him  rank  with  Milton),  the  result  of  many 
years  of  labour,  thought,  reflection,  knowledge,  observation,  study,  not  from  books 
— for,  like  his  own  "  Wanderer," 

"  He  had  small  need  of  books  " — 

was  pooh-poohed  away  among  "  rubbish."  Even  Giffard,  although  he  yielded  to 
Southey 's  wish,  and  let  Lamb  review  it  in  the  Quarterly,  clipped  the  friendly  critic's 
wings,  erasing  so  many  laudatory  passages,  that  the  very  soul  of  "  gentle-hearted 
Charles  "  was  wrung  with  anguish. 

He  was,  in  the  estimation,  or  at  least  according  to  the  description,  of  those  whose 
business  was  to  lead  and  guide  public  opinion,  neither  more  nor  less  than  "  one  of 
the  school  of  whining  and  hypochondriacal  poets  that  haunt  the  Lakes." 

*  In  a  letter  to  Moxon,  in  1833,  he  states  that  not  a  single  copy  of  his  poems  had  been  sold  by  one  of  the 
leading  booksellers  in  Cumberland,  "  though  Cumberland  is  my  native  county." 

t  Among  the  "  few"  was  Professor  Wilson,  a  mere  youth  and  "  stranger  "  to  the  poet.  In  a  letter,  warm  to 
enthusiasm,  he  lauds  the  "Lyn'cal  Ballads."  "He  valued  them  next  to  his  Bible,"  aad  felt  for  their  author  "an 
attachment  made  up  of  love  and  admiration."  The  letter  was  not  signed  by  the  writer's  name,  but  Wordsworth 
answered  it.  It  cheered  the  great  poet  by  its  evidence  that  there  were  some  to  appreciate  his  genius.  He  had  given 
to  the  writer  "  no  cheap  nor  vulgar  pleasure,"  for  it  was  plain  that  his  poems  had  been  thought  over  and  studied, 
and  that  his  correspondent  was  no  common  youth. 


302  MEMORIES. 


Such  were  his  reviewers — as  Coleridge  writes, 

"  Disinterested  thieves  of  our  good  name, 
Cool,  sober  murderers  of  their  neighbour's  fame." 

It  would  have  been  opposed  to  nature  had  the  self-conscious  poet  in  no  way 
murmured  against  this  dispensation  of  the  critics,  representing  the  public.  He  did 
murmur,  no  doubt,  and  very  frequently  complained, — even  so  late  as  1831,  when  I 
knew  him, — at  the  miserable  recompense  that  rewarded  his  many  years  of  labour ; 
but,  at  the  period  to  which  I  refer,  indifference  was  gradually  giving  way,  the  fruit 
was  ripening  to  reward  toil,  and  the  "  hereafter  "  that  was  to  bring  the  "  All  hail  ! " 
was  gradually  looming  into  sight. 

When  "  The  Excursion  "  was  "  crushed,"  Wordsworth  wrote  to  Southey  : — "  Let 
the  age  continue  to  love  its  own  darkness  ;  I  shall  continue  to  write,  with,  I  trust, 
the  light  of  Heaven  upon  me." 

Critics  will  do  well  to  bear  perpetually  in  mind  that  a  not  far-off  thereafter  may 
reverse  a  sentence  that  will,  at  the  moment,  be  accepted  as  just.  A  hundred  modern 
instances  may  be  quoted  :  that  so  generally  pronounced  against  Wordsworth  will, 
perhaps,  suffice.  I  cannot  say  if  Jeffrey  repented  him  of  the  evil ;  probably  at  the 
last,  as  at  the  first,  he  was  unable  to  comprehend  the  great  High  Priest  of  Nature — 
the  poet  who,  next  to  that  of  Shakspeare,  has  his  name  written  in  the  book  of  British 
Worthies,  He  did  not  "  crush  "  "  The  Excursion,"  neither  did  he  extinguish  the 
poet ;  but  no  doubt  he  so  thoroughly  "  stifled"  his  aspirations  as  to  extort  a  brief 
resolve  to  write  on,  but  to  print  no  more — to  leave  the  benefits  of  publication  to  his 
heirs  and  assigns.     Is  it 

"  No  public  harm  that  Genius  from  her  course 
Be  turned,  and  dreams  of  truth  dried  up,  even  at  their  source  ?" 

Yes,  the  history  of  authors  is  full  of  "  calamities  "  of  that  kind.  Unhappily,  there 
is  ever  a  strong  temptation  to  unsympathising  and  ungenerous  and  harsh  criticism. 
Though  it  may  be  rare — perhaps  it  has  never  happened — that  an  author  has  died 
of  a  review,  at  least  it  is  certain  that  the  "  this  will  never  do  "  of  the  critic  has 
depressed  and  saddened,  nay,  blighted  a  whole  life,  and  deprived  generations  of  the 
fruits  of  labours  that  might  have  been  productive  of  much  good.  I  speak  from  my 
own  knowledge  when  I  say  tbis ;  and  I  could,  if  I  pleased,  describe  a  score  of  such 
cases  that  are  within  my  own  experience.  If  critics  could  witness  the  agonies  that 
harsh  judgment  has  brought  to  a  working  home,  when  hands  have  been  shackled 
and  brain  has  been  paralysed  by  heedless  injustice,  or  even  by  justice  ministered  not 
with  reluctance,  but  with  relish,  there  would  be  less  of  misery  among  those  whose 
"  sensitiveness  "  is  proverbial — authors  and  artists. 

In  estimating  the  full  effect  of  unjust  or  severe  personal  criticism,  we  must  not 
confine  our  thoughts  to  the  author  attacked.  Often  it  affects  literature.  Some 
scholars  in  easy  circumstances  have  ceased  to  write  rather  than  be  the  butt  of 
ignorant  critics.  Such  was  the  case  with  Francis  Douce,  whose  illustrations  of 
Shakspeare  are  a  text-book  for  students.  He  was  so  bitterly  assailed  that  he  deter- 
mined never  again  to  publish.  He  gave  his  Manuscripts  to  the  British  Museum, 
locked  in  iron-bound  boxes,  with  a  legal  proviso  that  they  should  not  be  opened  until 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH.  303 

a  century  after  his  death.  His  valuable  and  curious  library  he  left  to  the  Bodleian 
at  Oxford. 

No  book  is  better  known  and  appreciated  than  Percy's  "  Eeliques  of  Ancient 
Poetry."  It  had,  too,  a  salutary  effect  on  popular  literature,  by  substituting  simple 
nature  in  ballad  poetry  for  foolish  conventionalism.  Yet  the  bishop  was  so  bitterly 
attacked,  particularly  by  Ritson,  that  it  embittered  his  life.  He  never  ceased  lamenting 
that  he  had  published  the  book,  and  in  his  later  days  could  not  bear  to  hear  it 
named. 

It  would  be  easy  to  multiply  examples. 

And  it  may  be  strictly  true  that  in  this  way  critics  have  slain  authors  ;  that 
some  who  might  otherwise  have  lived  to  be  famous  have  died  of  a  review. 

Even  so  it  was  with  great  Wordsworth :  very  nearly  he  had  resolved  to  write,  or 
at  all  events  to  print,  no  more.  But,  as  I  have  said,  he  lived  to  see  his  faith  in 
himself  gradually  but  surely  becoming  the  faith  of  all  mankind. 

One  morning  in  1831,  when  Mr.  Wordsworth  honoured  me  with  his  company  at 
breakfast,  our  talk  fell  on  his  "lack  of  popularity."  I,  who  was  among  the  most 
devout  of  his  worshippers,  sought  to  argue  him  out  of  so  depressing  a  belief,  and  I 
showed  how  I  had  become  so  familiar  with  his  writings  by  placing  before  him  a  copy  of 
Galignani's  edition  of  his  works,  collected  in  a  form,  and  at  a  price,  that  brought 
the  whole  of  them  within  my  reach.  I  expressed  a  belief  that  of  that  book  many 
hundreds,  probably  thousands,  were  annually  sold  in  England.  That  led  to  an 
appointment  with  a  view  to  inquiry,  and  next  day  I  accompanied  him  to  a  book- 
seller's in  Piccadilly^a  firm  with  the  encouraging  and  ominous  name  of  "  Sustenance 
and  Stretch."  The  sale  of  the  work,  as  of  all  English  reprints,  was  strictly  "pro- 
hibited." I  asked  for  a  copy  of  Galignani's  edition  :  it  was  produced.  I  asked  if  I 
could  have  six  copies,  and  was  told  I  could ;  fifty  copies  ?  yes,  at  a  month's  notice  ; 
and  further  questions  induced  conviction  that  by  that  one  house  alone  between  two 
hundred  and  three  hundred  copies  have  been  sold  during  the  year.  I  believe  Words- 
worth was  far  more  pleased  than  vexed  to  know  that  although  he  derived  no  profit 
from  them,  at  least  his  poems  were  read."* 

In  1864  I  made  a  pilgrimage  to  the  home  and  grave  of  Wordsworth, — the  haunts 
he  loved,  and  the  places  he  has  made  familiar  as  household  words  to  millions  hving 
and  for  millions  yet  to  come.  I  will  ask  the  reader  of  this  Memory  to  visit  them 
with  me — 

"  In  that  sweet  mood,  when  pleasant  thoughts 
Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind." 


*  In  a  letter  addressed  to  me  by  Leigh  Hunt,  in  1831,  he  writes :— "  Wordsworth's  lack  of  popularity  was  owing 
partly  to  that  taste  for  the  French  school  of  poetry  which  was  still  Ungering  among  us  from  the  times  of  Dryden 
and  Pope  and  partly  to  the  excess  to  which  he  pushed  his  simplicity,  as  if  m  scorn  of  it,  which  naturaUy  enough 
irritated  the  wits  and  others,  who  had  been  bred  up  in  its  conventional  elegancies.  He  has  smce  given  indications 
of  a  consciousness  of  having  gone  a  Uttle  too  far  ;  and  they,  on  the  other  hand,  are  veiy  sorry  and  complimentary, 
and  so  all  is  well  at  last.  Meanwhile,  he  waited  patiently  for  the  turn  of  the  tide  that  was  to  bring  to  him  a  crowd 
of  devoted  admirers  "  They  who  knew  Wordsworth  may  conceive  the  dehght  he  would  have  felt  at  examining  the 
edition  of  oU  his  poems  (700  pagesl,  published  by  Moxon,  not  long  after  the  poet's  death.  It  is  a  beawtifuUy- 
printed  volume,  in  sufficiently  large  and  clear  type,  infinitely  preferable  to  that  of  Galignani,  so  long  the  only 
"  collected  "  edition  of  his  poems,  but  most  unsatisfactory  and  incomplete. 


304 


MEMORIES. 


went,  and  mnores  thp  l«r,<q«.o     V^^       /  ""^"^  *^^  "^e^^'^T  of  the  Conti- 

world  can  comnpf!  T T  f,  '^f/^*^  ^^^«^'  ^^  «o^e  respects,  no  country  of  the 
to  readers  of  W  d;wo  7  b"'  ttr  ^^:1"^^^^^  ^^  ^'^  ^^^^^^  ^^^  place/familiar 
.ificent  locality  of  Xh 'even  he Ts^'f  ""'';'^""^^  ^^  *'^*  ^^^^^^  ^^^  -^^- 
tbere  it  was  hard  tl  reach  L.  n  f  T.  "'"^'-  ^^'^  *^^  ^^^^^  ^^^  ^^ved 
Helvellvn-''  h!  ^  *^'^  ^^^^^"^^  ^^^  days  of  toil  before   he  saw  -  loftv 

J^ondon.     The  wayside  inns  that  gave  him  little  more  than  shelter  have 


THE   PRINCE    OP   WALES   HOTEL. 


"nil     Tn?"^  T         '°''"l-       ^'  '''^  "''  P»"-  '»  »Vire  whether  such 
palaces      and  roads  improve  the  counties  of  hUl  and  valley,  wood  and  water-  at 
leas   they  afford  more  comforts  to  those  who  there  seek  health  relaxation  Ir      ioy 
h"::iVl    :'?  of  f  ^'r,^.«'™f  f-  »'"-•     »-  of  the  ,.L  attractive    fl 
dde    n  ?W    '  f       /     ."  "'  "■"  "'"  '""'"  '  ""^  "  "'  "'""'o  •• "  tt"'  i«  at  Amble. 

IsUv      ThV"P  ',wT  ^'™"'  """"^""^  '"  '">  "'1'^  lions"  may  he  made 

easdy.     The     Prmce  of  Wales  Hotel  "  stands  on  a  border  of  Grasmere  Lake,  a  few 
yards  only  from  its  eastern  bank.* 


;;^5SES"^- -^^^- ■5Si;rS-£?^S,-^         ^ST!^ 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH.  305 

Let  us,  however,  set  out  on  our  tour  to  "  the  land  of  Wordsworth,"  j&rst  entering 
the  house — Rydal  Mount — in  which  he  lived  from  the  year  1813  to  the  year  of  his 
death  in  1850.  Nay,  rather  let  us,  for  the  moment,  pass  it  by — closing  our  eyes  as 
we  pass — and,  a  mile  or  so  farther  on,  drop  down  upon  a  little  humble  cottage  by 
the  roadside.  "That  little  cottage  (at  Town  End,  Grasmere*)  was  Wordsworth's, 
from  the  time  of  his  marriage,  and  earlier — in  fact,  from  the  beginning  of  the  century 
to  the  year  1808.  t  Afterwards,  for  many  years,  it  was  mine."  So  writes  De 
Quincey.  It  was  then  a  white  cottage,  "  with  two  yew-trees  breaking  the  glare  of 
its  white  walls."  The  house  has  undergone  little  change  ;  the  low  rooms  are 
unaltered  ;  the  flight  of  stairs  to  the  "  drawing-room  " — "  fourteen  in  all ;  "  the  fire- 
place, "  half  kitchen  and  half  parlour  fire  ; "  the  small  and  contracted  bed-rooms  ;  the 
road  close  in  front,  the  wide  open  view  of  mountains,  and  the  steep  hill,  covered  with 
wild  shrubs  and  underwood  that  overhung  the  house  behind — these  are  all  as  they 
were  when  the  poet  left  them  more  than  half  a  century  ago.  Such  was  his  first 
house — his  "little  nook  of  mountain  ground." 

Rydal  Mount  is  about  two  miles  from  Ambleside,  on  the  road  to  Keswick,  and 
about  the  same  distance  from  Grasmere.  It  stands  a  few  yards  out  of  the  main 
road,  on  high  ground — a  projection  of  the  hill  called  "  Nab  Scar"  \ — and  commands 
an  extensive  view,  to  which  I  shall  refer  presently.  Rydal  village  is  in  the  hollow 
underneath,  in  a  narrow  gorge,  "formed  by  the  advance  of  Loughrigg  Fell  and 
Rydal  Nab."  In  the  immediate  neighbourhood  are  some  of  the  finest  waterfalls  of 
the  district,  ia  the  park  of  Lady  Le  Fleming — 

"  Lady  of  a  lofty  line."  5 

The  house  is  comfortable,  without  being  by  any  means  grand  ;  it  is  covered  with 
jasmine,  roses,  and  ivy.  ||     The  rooms  are  many,  but  small;  it  has  not  undergone 

*  In  1769  the  poet  Gray  describes  Grasmere  village  as  utterly  isolated — "not  a  single  red  tile,  no  staring  gentle- 
man's house  breaks  in  upon  the  repose  of  this  unsuspected  paradise,  but  all  is  peace,  rusticity,  and  happy  poverty, 
in  its  sweetest,  most  becoming  attire."  It  is  entirely  altered  now :  here  is  Mrs.  Lynn  Linton's  description  of 
Grasmere  in  1865.  Grasmere  is  "  a  scattered  collection  of  human  habitations,  cottages,  shops,  houses,  mansions, 
each  with  its  own  garden,  or  special  plot  of  greenery."  Some  idea  of  its  character  maybe  formed  from  the  fact  that 
the  postman  walks  some  eight  miles  in  and  out  and  about  the  village  while  delivering  letters.  These  are  Mrs. 
Heman's  lines  on  Grasmere  valley  : — 

"  O  vale  and  lake,  within  yon  mountain  um, 
Smiling  so  tranquilly,  and  yet  so  deep ! 
Oft  doth  your  dreamy  loveliness  return, 
Colouring  the  tender  shadows  of  my  sleep 
With  light  Elysian  ;  for  the  hues  that  steep 
Your  shores  in  melting  lustre,  seem  to  float 
On  golden  clouds  from  spirit-lands  remote, 
Isles  of  the  blest ;  and  in  our  memory  keep 
The  place  with  holiest  harmonies." 

+  He  left  the  cottage  in  1808  for  Allan-bank,  where  he  resided  about  two  years ;  he  then  went  to  the  Parsonage, 
also  in  Grasmere,  where  he  remained  until  he  went  to  Eydal  Mount  in  1813. 

X  At  Nab  Cottage,  near  at  hand,  unhappy  Hartley  Coleridge  lived  ;  he  was  but  a  lodger  there.  Poor  erring 
child  of  Genius,  he  never  had,  never  could,  with  his  habits,  have  had  a  house  of  his  own.  If  he  was  not  respected, 
he  was  dearly  loved  by  all  who  knew  him. 

\  It  is  of  this  particular  place  that  Mason,  the  biographer  of  Gray,  writes—"  Here  nature  has  performed  every- 
thing in  little,  which  she  usually  executes  on  a  larger  scale,  and  on  that  account,  like  the  miniature  painter,  seems 
to  have  finished  every  part  of  it  in  a  studied  manner  ;  not  a  little  fragment  of  rock  thrown  into  the  basin,  not  a 
single  stem  of  brushwood  that  stai-ts  from  its  craggy  sides,  but  has  its  picturesque  meaning,  and  the  little  central 
stream,  dashing  down  a  cleft  of  the  darkest-coloured  stone,  produces  an  effect  of  light  and  shadow  beautiful  beyond 
description." 

II  The  engraving,  from  a  drawing  by  my  friend  Jacob  Thompson,  pictures  the  house  as  it  was  when  the  poet 
lived  there.  Some  of  the  trees  have  since  been  cut  down  ;  a  new  stone,  porch  has  been  introduced,  and  the  exterior 
has,  unhappily,  been  subjected  to  other  "  improvements."     Yidt  p.  293. 


3o6  MEMORIES. 


much  alteration  at  the  hands  of  its  present  tenant,  although  by  a  former  occupier, 
Wordsworth's  small  parlour — his  "  study,"  if  he  had  any — has  been  "  deformed  "  by 
removing  the  old  jutting-out  fire-place,  in  the  corner  of  which  host  and  guest  might, 
and  did  often,  sit.  A  little  corner  cupboard  of  oak  let  into  the  wall  remains  to 
suggest  that  there  the  half-finished  book  was  placed  when  the  sunshine  or  moonshine 
gave  the  poet  a  call  to  come  forth.  That,  then,  was  his  library ;  but  a  library  was,* 
as  all  know,  a  secondary  consideration  with  the  poet ;  "  he  had  small  need  of  books," 
although,  as  his  nephew  tells  us,  "  he  was  extremely  well  read  in  English  poetry." 
"We  have  also  the  evidence  of  Southey  that  he  was  intimately  acquainted  with  the 
poets  of  Great  Britain ;  had  deeply  read  and  closely  studied  them ;  was  not  only 
familiar  with  them,  but  knew  them  well,  even  those  of  whom  so  many  others  know 
nothing. 

The  word  "  8alve  "  still  gives  its  welcome  at  the  door-step  ;  it  is  a  mosaic  pre- 
sented to  the  poet  by  a  friend  who  brought  it  for  him  from  Italy,  f 

A  mound  immediately  opposite  the  door,  to  reach  which  you  descend  half-a-score 
of  time-worn  steps,  edged  with  ferns  and  wild  flowers,  commands  the  prospect  on 
which  the  poet  loved  to  look- — the  lovely  vale  of  the  Kotha.  In  front — to  the  left 
— is  Wansfell.     His  household,  the  poet  writes,  has  a  favoured  lot, 

"  Living'  -with  liberty  to  gaze  on  thee." 

Underneath  it  is  Ambleside  ;  to  the  right  are  the  fells  of  Loughrigg,  with  its  solitary 
crag  that  "  daily  meets  the  sight."  Immediately  in  front  are— Windermere  to  the 
left,  Eydal  Water  to  the  right.  From  the  summit  of  Nab  Scar,  within  ken,  are 
Windermere,  Kydal,  Grasmere,  and  Coniston  Lakes  ;  the  Tarns  also  of  Loughrigg, 
Easedale,  Elterwater,  and  Blellam  ;  while,  far  away,  Solway  Frith  is  distinctly 
visible.  On  the  summit  of  Helm  Crag,  seen  in  all  directions  in  the  locality,  are  two 
singular  rocks,  known  throughout  the  district  as  "  the  Lion  and  the  Lamb  ;  "  they 
convey  the  idea — the  lesser  crouching  at  the  feet  of  the  larger  animal,  supplicating 
mercy.]:     Such  were  the  sights  that 

"  From  this  low  threshold  daily  meet  my  sight. 
When  I  step  forth  to  hail  the  morning  Tght." 

Now  and  then  the  sound  of  the  not-far-ofi"  cascade  greets  the  ear,  softened  by 
distance  into  melody.     Immediately  underneath  is   the  modern   church — Lady  Le 


*  It  is  said  that  a  stranger  once  asked  the  servant  to  show  him  "  Mr.  Wordsworth's  study,"  and  received  this 
answer  as  she  conducted  him  into  a  room  in  which  were  many  books,  "  This  is  master's  library,  but  his  study  is  out 
of  doors." 

t  In  1826  "  the  poet's  home  "  was  pictured  by  Maiy  Jane  Jewsbury — 

"  Low  and  white,  yet  scarcely  seen 
Are  its  walls,  for  mantling  green, 
Winding  walk  and  sheltered  nook 
For  student  grave  and  graver  book." 

i  Wordsworth  calls  these  singular  rocks  "the  Astrologer  and  the  Ancient  Woman."  I  cannot  say  how,  why, 
or  when  their  title  was  changed. 

"  Dread  pair,  that  speak  of  wind  and  weather, 
Still  sit  upon  Helm  Crag  tegether." 


Fleming's  Chapel;  it  is  there  still — with  its  holy  response  to  the  poet's  prayer 
"  when  first  the  woods  embraced  that  daughter  of  her  pious  care  " — 

"  Heaven  prosper  it !    May  peace,  and  love, 
And  hope,  and  consolation  fall, 
Tkrough  its  meek  influence,  from  above, 
And  penetrate  the  hearts  of  all." 

It  is,  however,  the  walks  about — the  Poet's  Walk  especially — that  pilgrinas  will 
visit  as  a  Shrine;  they  are  sutficiently  "trim,"  but  Nature  is  allowed  to  have  her 
will,  and  they  are  full  of  wild  flowers — the  foxglove,  the  wild  strawberry,  and 
various  ferns  abounding.  At  the  extremity  of  one  of  them  is  a  summer-house  lined 
with  .fir  cones,  which  must  be  recruited  now  and  then,  for  they  supply  pilgrims  with 
relics.* 

The  Poet's  Walk  leads  from  the  house,  through  a  shaded  and  narrow  path- 
way; he  consigned  it  to  the  care  of  "those  pure  minds  who  reverence  the  Muse."f 
For 

"A  poet's  hand  first  shaped  it;  and  the  steps 
Of  that  same  bard,  repeated  to  and  fro 
At  mom,  at  noon,  and  under  moonlight  skies, 
Through  the  vicissitudes  of  many  a  year. 
Forbade  the  vreeds  to  creep  o'er  its  grey  line." 

It  is,  I  rejoice  to  say,  carefully  kept ;  an  aged  gardener,  who  was  there  in  Words- 
worth's time,  still  trims  the  borders  and  weeds  the  banks.  And  the  gentleman  who 
dwells  there — whether  he  reverences  or  is  indifferent  to  the  Muse,  I  cannot  say- 
keeps  the  place  in  order,  giving  entrance  to  the  public  on  certain  days.j  But  I 
could  not  fail,  in  visiting  the  poet's  house,  to  quote  the  lines  written  on  it  by  Mary 
Jane  Jewsbury  in  1826  : — 

"  What  shaU  outward  signs  avail 
If  the  ansvrering  spirit  fail  ? 
What  this  beauteous  dwelling  be 
If  it  hold  not  hearts  for  thee  1 " 

You  pass  out  of  the  grounds  by  a  small  gateway,  and  have  a  long  walk  that  leads 
to  Grasmere.  Of  this  walk  Mrs.  Lynn  Linton  says,  "The  terrace  walk  along  Nab 
Scar,  with  its  desolation,  sometimes  left  bare  and  naked  to  the  sky,  and  sometimes 
clothed  with  fern,  and  moss,  and  lichen,  is  very  lovely ;  lovely,  from  the  first  step 
outside  the  poet's  garden,  to  the  last,  by  White  Moss,  and  the  little  pool  fringed  with 
water-lilies."  "Hundreds  of  times,"  writes  the  poet,  "have  I  here  watched  the 
dancing  of  shadows  amid  a  press  of  sunshine,  and  other  beautiful  appearances  of 
light  and  shade,  flowers  and  shrubs." 

The  grounds  slope,  sometimes  with  a  sudden  and  steep  descent.  One  of  the 
paths  leads  to  "Dora's  field."     In  that  field  there  is  a  venerable  oak,  the  branches 

*  "  He  led  me,"  says  Emerson,  "  into  his  garden,  and  showed  me  the  gravel- walk  in  which  thousands  of  his 
lines  were  composed."  Mr.  Justice  Coleridge  "writes  of  him — "  He  dealt  with  shrubs,  flower-beds,  and  lawns  with 
the  readiness  of  a  practised  landscape-gardener ;  his  own  little  grounds  afforded  a  beautiful  specimen  of  his  skill." 

+  "  The  sylvan,  or  say,  rather,  the  forest  scenery  of  Eydal  Park  was,  in  the  memory  of  living  men,  magnificent, 
and  it  still  contains  a  treasure  of  old  trees.  By  aU  means  wander  away  into  those  old  woods,  and  lose  yourself  for 
an  hour  or  two,  among  the  cooing  of  cushats,  and  the  shriU  shriek  of  startled  blackbirds,  and  the  rustle  of  the 
harmless  glowworm  among  the  last  year's  red  beech  leaves.  No  very  great  harm,  should  you  even  fall  asleep  under 
the  shadow  of  an  oak,  while  the  magpie  chatters  at  safe  distance,  and  the  more  innocent  squirrel  peeps  down  upon 
you  from  the  bough  of  the  canopy,  and  then,  twisting  his  tail,  glides  into  the  obscurity  of  the  loftiest  umbrage." — 
Professor  Wilson. 

+  I  trust  these  remarks  will  apply  to  Eydal  Mount  in  1875  as  they  did  in  1865.  The  owner  of  such  a  place  is  a 
trustee  for  aU  human  kind. 

X  2 


3o8 


MEMORIES. 


1 


of  which  are  thickly  covered  with  lichens  and  ferns,  that  have  thrust  their  roots  deep 
into  the  moist  bark ;  and  at  its  foot  there  is  a  spring  where  grow  the  plants  that 
flourish  best  in  perpetual  moisture.  There,  too,  is  the  stone  that  at  Wordsworth's 
suit  was  spared  :  the  lines  he  wrote  are  engraved  on  a  brass  tablet,  let  into  it : — 

"  In  these  fair  vales  hath  many  a  tree, 

At  Wordsworth's  suit,  heen  spared ; 
And  from  the  builder's  hand  this  stone, 
For  some  rude  beauty  of  its  own, 

Was  rescued  by  the  bard. 
So  let  it  rest ;  and  time  will  come 

When  here  the  tender-hearted 
May  heave  a  gentle  sigh  for  him 

As  one  of  the  departed." 


THE    STONE  :    "  AT    WOEDSWOETH'S    SUIT   WAS    SPAEKD." 

In  this  spot,  it  seemed  to  me,  and  no  doubt  it  will  so  seem  to  all  visitors  who 
love  the  bard  and  reverence  his  memory,  that  Wordsworth  was  more  palpably  present 
than  elsewhere ;  and  it  will  demand  no  great  degree  of  hero-worship  to  utter,  beside 
that  stone  and  that  aged  tree,  his  own  words  applied  to  his  predecessors  in  his 
"  high  calling  :  " — 

"  Blessings  be  with  them,  and  eternal  praise. 
Who  gave  us  nobler  loves  and  nobler  cares. 
The  poets,  who  on  earth  have  made  us  heirs 
Of  true  and  pure  delight  by  heavenly  lays." 

From  the  house  our  steps  naturally  pace  to  the  grave  in  which  the  mortal  part  of 
Wordsworth  rests.     Happily,  he  sleeps  among  the  scenes  he  has  made  immortal ; 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


309 


happily,  it  was  not  his  destiny  to  "moulder  in  a  far-off  field  of  Rome."  The 
little  graveyard  of  Grasmere,  "the  Churchyard  among  the  Mountains,"  was 
familiar  to  all  readers  of  "The  Excursion"  before  the  poet  was  laid  there.  It 
receives  mournful,  yet  happy,  interest  as  the  place  in  which  he  "  sleeps  "  among  the 
dalesmen  of  Grasmere  valley,  upon  whose  shoulders — "  the  shoulders  of  neighbours," 
in  accordance  with  his  wish,  expressed  long  years  before — he  was  borne  to  his  grave. 
By  the  side  of  his  beloved  Dora  he  was  buried.*  It  is  a  humble  grave  :  they  are 
plain,  erect  stones  that  record  his  name,  and  those  of  his  immediate  relatives.  He 
reposes  under  the  green  turf:  no  weight  of  monumental  marble  keeps  the  daisies 
from  growing  there.     Others,  no  doubt,  have   done  as  I  did — transplanted  a  wild 


THE   GBAVE  OF  WILLIAM   W0BD3W0ETH. 

flower  from  his  "Walk"  to  the  mound  that  rises  over  his  remains;  and  others,  no 
doubt,  for  generations  yet  to  come,  will  do  as  I  did,  breathe  a  prayer  of  fervent  and 
grateful  homage  to  his  memory  at  the  foot  of  the  grave  in  which  his  mortal  part  is  at 
rest  from  labour : — 

. "  The  common  growth  of  mother  Earth 
Suffices  me— her  tears,  her  mirth, 
Her  humblest  mirth  and  tears '.  " 

A  group  of  yew-trees  throw  their  shadow  on  the  grave  ;  they  were  planted  by 
his  own  hands,  "principally,  if  not  entirely;  "  and  who  is  there  that  will  not  say 
"Amen"  to  the  poet's  v/ish,  "May  they  be  taken  care  of  hereafter;"  and  to  his 


*  Dora  Wordsworth,  the  poet's  only  daughter,  was  married  in  1841  to  Edward  Quillinan.  Concerning  that 
estimable  gentleman  I  have  elsewhere  offered  some  remarks.  Few  men  were  more  esteemed  and  respected  than  was 
Mr.  Q,uillinan  by  a  large  circle  of  acquaintances,  of  whom  I  had  the  privilege  to  be  one.  His  beloved  Dora  died  in 
]847,  and  her  venerable  father  "  was  never  the  same  man  afterwards."  Mr.  Guillinan  is  buiied  near  to  the  grave 
of  Wordsworth,  by  the  side  of  Dora,  and  Hartley  Coleridge  lies  there  too.  The  spot  was  selected  by  Wordsworth, 
who  said,  in  reference  to  poor  Hartley,  "  I  know  he  would  have  liked  to  lie  where  I  shall  lie." 


hope  that  some  future  generation  may  see  them  rivals  to  the  "  Pride  of  Lorton 
Vale,"  and  the  forlorn  sisters  that  give  at  once  gloom  and  gladness  to  Borrowdale  ? 

The  river  Kothay  meanders  round  the  churchyard ;  it  may  be  rude  and  harsh  in 
winter,  but  it  pursued  its  course  to  Lake  Grasmere  vs^ith  a  gentle  and  harmonious 
melody  Mrhen  I  was  there.  Alone  for  a  long  half-hour  I  stood — mute.  Suddenly  a 
group  of  children  passed  through  the  little  gate,  arranged  some  wild  flowers  under 
the  church  porch,  and  laid  them  on  the  poet's  grave,  "under  the  yew-trees  and 
beside  the  gushing  Eothay,"  the  spot  "  he  had  chosen  for  himself."  The  poet  would 
have  loved  to  see  that  sight ;  possibly  did  see  it. 


THE  VIEW   FROM  BTDAL  MOUNT. 


The  subject  of  Religion  was  not  prominent — certainly  not  intrusive — in  his 
writings,  yet  it  breathes  through  almost  everything  he  wrote ;  the  essentially  holy 
mind  of  the  poet  is  everywhere  manifest.  No  writer,  living  or  "  dead,"  has  better 
taught  us  how 

"  To  look  through  Nature  up  to  Nature's  God." 

I  found,  in  Mr.  Dillon's  collection  of  autographs,  a  letter  written  by  Wordsworth 
to  the  painter  Haydon,  dated  January  20th,  1817,  which,  I  believe,  has  never  been 
in  type.     I  am,  therefore,  induced  to  print  it. 

"Thelwall,  the  politician,  many  years  ago  lost  a  daughter.     I  knew  her  ;  she  was  a  charming 
creature.     Thelwall's  were  the  agonies  of  an  unbeliever,  and  he  expressed  them  vigorously  in 


J 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH.  311 


several  copies  of  harmonious  blank  verse,  a  metre  which  he  writes  well,  for  he  has  a  good  ear. 
Ihese  effusions  of  anguish  were  published  ;  but  though  they  have  great  merit,  we  cannot  read 
them  but  with  much  more  pain  than  pleasure.  You  probably  know  how  much  I  have  suffered  in 
this  way  myself,  having  lost,  within  the  short  space  of  half  a  year,  two  delightful  creatures,  a  girl 
and  a  boy,  of  the  several  ages  of  four  and  six  and  a  half.  That  was  four  years  ago,  but  they  are 
perpetually  present  to  my  eyes.  I  do  not  mourn  for  them,  yet  I  am  sometimes  weak  enough  to 
wish  that  I  had  them  again.  They  are  laid  side  by  side  in  Grasmere  Churchyard  ;  on  the  head- 
stone of  one  IS  that  beautiful  text  of  Scripture,  '  Suffer  the  little  children  to  come  unto  Me,  and 
forbid  them  not,  for  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven ; '  and  on  that  of  the  other  are  inscribed  the 
following  verses : — 

'  Six  months  to  six  years  added,  he  remained 

Upon  this  sinful  earth,  by  sin  unstained  ; 

O  blessed  Lord,  whose  mercy  then  removed 

A  child  that  every  eye  that  looked  on  loved, 

Support  us,— teach  us  calmly  to  resign 

What  we  possessed — and  now  is  wholly  Thine  I  " 

These  verses  I  have  inscribed  because  they  are  imbued  with  that  sort  of  consolation  which  you 

f3-y 's  deprived  of.     It  is  the  only  support  to  be  depended  upon,  and  happy  are  they  to  whom 

it  is  vouchsafed."* 

We  turn  from  the  churchyard  and  the  church,  the  church  that  contains  a  memorial 
stone,  with  a  medaUion  portrait  (Harriet  Martineau  tells  us),  "  accom^Danied  by  an 
inscription  adapted  from  a  dedication  of  the  Eev.  John  Keble."  Wordsworth 
described  that  church  in  1790.  It  has  been  "renovated"  since;  but  still  the  roof 
is  upheld  by  "naked  rafters,"  and  still  "admonishing  texts"  speak  from  its  white' 
walls,  f 

The  accompanying  view  is  of  the  head  of  Windermere,  looking  towards  Rydal ; 
it  is  engraved  from  a  drawing  by  Jacob  Thompson,  taken  before  the  locality  was 
changed— dotted  with  villas — and  represents  the  lovely  scene  as  it  was  when  Words- 
worth looked  upon  it.  There  is  the  steep  hill  behind  the  poet's  dwelling ;  behind 
the  group  of  trees  is  Ambleside ;  the  vale  of  Eydal  is  hidden  by  the  dark  mass  in  the 
middle  of  the  dell ;  to  the  left  is  Loughrigg  Fell ;  and  underneath  it,  more  to  the 
left,  is  the  entrance  to  the  vale  of  Langdale. 

You  cannot  walk  a  mile  in  that  rugged  and  wild,  and  grand  and  fair  district 
without  quoting  some  passage  from  the  poet ;  hnking  it,  as  it  will  be  linked  for  ever, 
with  the  place  or  object  on  which  you  look.|  Every  spot  is  consecrated  by  his 
genius ;  he  has  left  his  mark  everywhere ;  the  lakes,  the  rivers,  the  hills,  the  moun- 
tains, the  dales  and  dells,  the  rocks  and  crags,  the  islands  and  waterfalls,  are  all 
signed  with  his  name  :  § — 

"  Deep  pools,  tall  trees,  black  chasms,  and  dizzy  crags. 
And  tottering  towers." 

*  "  In  this  just  and  high  sense  of  the  word,  the  education  of  a  sincere  Christian,  and  a  good  member  of  society 
upon  Christian  principles,  does  not  terminate  with  his  youth,  but  goes  on  to  the  last  moment  of  his  conscious 
earthly  existence, — an  education,  not  for  time,  but  for  eternity."  (From  an  Address  by  Wordsworth  at  the 
Foundation  of  a  School-house  at  Bowness,  May  6th,  1836.) 

■t  Another  local  memorial  was  raised  to  the  memory  of  Wordsworth  in  November,  1853,  in  his  native  town  of 
Cockermouth.  It  took  the  form  of  a  church  decoration — a  stained  glass  window  (by  Hardman),  costing  upwards  of 
£300,  and  containing  figures  of  saints  and  evangelists,  with  an  inscription  on  a  brass  tablet  beneath  the  window. 

X  "  The  brook  that  runs  through  Easedale,  which  is  in  some  parts  of  its  course  as  wide  and  beautiful  as  a  brook 
can  be.     I  have  composed  thousands  of  verses  by  the  side  of  it." — Wordsworth. 

5  I  have  limited  my  notes  to  Wordsworth's  pictures  of  the  district  in  which  he  lived.  It  is  needless  to  say, 
however,  that  his  Muse  had  a  far  wider  range— in  Scotland,  in  Wales,  and  in  several  countries  of  the  Continent. 
Most  unhappily,  Ireland  had  no  share  of  the  wealth  given  to  other  lands.  He  visited  Ireland  in  1829,  but  it  was  in 
the  company  of  a  gentleman,— John  Marshall,  M.P.,  of  Leeds, — who  drove  him  through  it  in  "  a  carriage  and  four." 
No  wonder,  therefore,  that  his  Muse  was  uninspired  and  idle  ;  yet  he  coveted  a  ramble  in  Kerry  County,  with  an 
artist  as  his  compinion.  He  visited  Killarney,  but  it  was  in  October.  "To  the  shortness  of  the  days,  and  the 
speed  with  which  he  travelled,"  he  writes,  "  may  be  ascribed  the  want  of  notices,  in  my  verse,  of  a  country  so  interest- 
ing."   Ay,  it  was  indeed  a  misfortune  for  Ireland  that  he  was  not  a  traveller  there,  as  he  so  often  was  by  the 


312  MEMORIES. 


1 


"  Wordsworth  has  himself  told  us  that  nine-tenths  of  his  verses  were  murmured 
in  the  open  air,  and  about  them  there  is  an  out-door  fragrance.  We  sniff  the  moun- 
tain breeze,  and  hear  the  murmur  of  the  forest,  and  gaze  into  the  clear  depths  of  the 
rocky  stream ;  and  even  in  his  loftiest  mood,  when  raised  into  a  purer  atmosphere 
than  we  breathe  on  earth,  his  thoughtful  brow  is  still  fanned  by  its  gales,  his 
inspiration  is  coloured  by  its  beauty,  and  finds  a  fit  local  habitation  amidst  its  natural 
scenes."* 

There  is  the  Derwent,  "fairest  of  all  rivers,"  that  blent  its  murmurs  with  his 
nurse's  song — "glory  of  the  vale,"  the  "bright  blue  river  "  that  was  a  joy  to  the 
very  last ;  there  is  drear  Helvellyn,  with  its  ravines,  "  a  history  of  forgotten  storms" 
— "lofty  Helvellyn,"  on  the  summit  of  which  he  stood  side  by  side  with  the 
"  Wizard  of  the  North,"  when  Scott  revelled  in  "  his  day  of  strength."  There  they 
stood  rejoicing ;  and,  as  Mrs.  Linton  writes,  "  let  any  one  haunted  by  small  cares, 
by  fears  worse  than  cares,  and  by  passions  worse  than  either,"  go  "  stand  in  the 
midst  of  that  great  majesty,  the  sole  small  thing,  and  shall  his  spirit,  which  should  be 
the  noblest  thing  of  all,  let  itself  be  crippled  by  self  and  fear,  till  it  lies  crawling  on 
earth,  when  its  place  is  lifting  to  the  heavens  ?  Oh  !  better  than  written  sermon,  or 
spoken  exhortation,  is  one  hour  on  the  lonely  mountain -top,  when  the  world  seems 
so  far  ofi",  and  God  and  his  angels  so  near  : " — 

"  When  inspiration  hovered  o'er  this  gronnd." 

St.  Herbert's  cell  is  yet  on  an  island  in  Derwentwater ;  the  cell  of  the  saint  who, 
in  his  "  utter  soHtude,"  prayed  that  he  and  the  man  he  loved  as  his  own  soul — a  far- 
away fellow-labourer,  St.  Cuthbert — "  might  die  at  the  same  moment," 

"Nor  in  vain 
So  prayed  he ! "  + 


There  is  bleak  Skiddaw,  the  poet's  love  :- 


'  What  was  the  great  Parnassus'  self  to  thee, 
Mount  Skiddaw  ?  " 


There  is  the  Greta,  giving  its  gently  mournful  voice,  as  it  rolls  onward  to  join 
the  Derwent,  gliding  together  into  Bassenthwaite, 

"  Among  this  multitude  of  hills, 
Crags,  woodlands,  waterfalls,  and  rUls," 

with  her  sinuous  banks,  her  "  thousand  thrones," 

"  Seats  of  glad  instinct,  and  loves'  carolling." 

There  is  the  mightiest  of  all  the  cataracts.     Often 

"  O'er  the  lake  the  cataract  of  Lodore 
Pealed  to  his  orisons." 


banks  of  Windermere.  "  The  deflcienoy,"  he  adds,  "  I  am  somewhat  ashamed  of."  Out  of  his  Irish  tour  came  only 
the  lines  "  To  the  lone  Eagle,"  which  he  saw  at  the  Giant's  Causeway,  or  rather  near  it,  at  Fairhead.  One  of  the 
most  delightful  conversations  I  had  with  the  poet  concerned  that  brief  and  unsatisfactory  tour.  When  talking  of 
KUlarney  he  fully  conceded  that  the  KiUarney  lakes,  considered  as  ont  lake,  surpassed  in  gi-andeur  and  beauty  any 
ont  of  the  lakes  of  Cumberland. 

*  John  Dennis. 

+  "  There  is  beauty  in  the  tradition  that  the  man  of  action  and  the  man  of  meditation,  the  propagandist  and 
the  recluse,  were  so  dear  to  each  other,  and  so  congenial."— Habbiet  Mabtineau. 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH.  313 


There  is  still  the  road  the  Roman  conquerors  laid  down, — 


"The  massy  ways  carried  along  those  heights 
By  Roman  perseverance." 


There  are  the  "  piled-up  stones,"  Druidic  relics,  laid  where  they  now  stand  by- 
British  hands,  centuries  before  the  Romans  were  a  power  in  Britain  ;  "  long  Meg  " 
and  her  daughters,  the  "  giant  mother  "  and  her  brood  : — 

"  A  weight  of  woe,  not  easy  to  be  borne, 
Fell  suddenly  upon  my  spirit,  cast 
From  the  dread  bosom  of  the  unknown  past. 
When  first  I  saw  that  sisterhood  forlorn." 

And  still  you  may  visit  the  cairn  heaped  over  the  bones  of  Dunmail, — 

' '  Last  king  of  rocky  Cumberland." 

We  see  the  "rocks  of  St.  John" — the  crags  that,  at  a  distance,  "resemblance 
wild  to  a  rough  fortress  bore,"  and  became  a  turreted  castle  when  magic  seduced 
King  Arthur  within  its  walls,  to  waste  his  time  and  his  strength  in  guilty  dalliance. 

Here,  too,  is  "  the  Eden  " — a  name  that,  though  borrowed  from  Paradise,  is  borne 
rightfully  ;  for  here 

"  Nature  gives  the  flowers 
That  have  no  rivals  among  British  bowers." 

And  here  is  majestic  Lowther  : — 

^^    "  Lowther,  in  thy  majestic  pile  are  seen 
Cathedral  pomp,  and  grace,  in  apt  accord 
With  the  baronial  castle's  sterner  mien." 

There  is  the  river  Duddon,  "  the  cloud-born  stream,"  "  cradled  among  the  moun- 
tains " — Duddon,  so  often  his  sole  listener,  and  here  are  the 

"  Tributary  streams 
Hurrying  with  lordly  Duddon  to  ujiite." 

Here  are  the  nooks  with  woodbine  hung,  "  half  grot,  half  arbour;"  and  here  is  still 
"  the  Fairy  Chasm,"  and  here 

"  The  gloomy  niche,  capacious,  blank,  and  cold." 

Still  Duddon  shelters  the  startled  scaly  tribe,  and  the  "  dancing  insects  forged  upon 
his  breast;"  still  "  passing  winds  memorial  tributes  pay,  and  torrents  chaunt  their 
praise.'' 

And  here  is  his  own  Rydal.  It  hath,  and  will  ever  have,  "  a  poet  of  its  own," 
who, 

"  Haunting  your  green  shade 
All  seasons  through,  is  humbly  pleased  to  braid 
Ground  flowers,  beneath  your  guardianship  self-sown." 

Here  are  yet  "  the  Stepping  Stones  " — 

"  stone  matched  with  stone 
In  studied  symmetry  ;  " 


and  here  is  "  the  Wishing  Gate," — 


'  Surviving  near  the  public  way 
The  rustic  Wishing  Gate," 


leading  to  a  field  sloping  to  the  river's  bank.  "  Time  out  of  mind  "  has  a  gate  been 
there.  May  no  evil  chance  remove  it!  for  there  "wishes  formed  or  indulged  have 
favourable  issues  :  " — 

"  And  not  in  vain,  when  thoughts  are  cast 
Upon  the  iiTsvocable  paat." 

The  yevi^-tree,  "  which  to  this  day  stands  single,  "  of  vast  circumference  and  gloom 
profound,"  is  "  still  the  pride  of  Lorton  Vale;  "  the  tree  that  furnished  weapons  to 
those  who 

"  Drew  their  sounding  bows  at  Azincour." 

And  there  flourish  yet  the  four  solemn  sisters — yew-trees  planted  a  thousand  years 
ago  :— 

"  Fraternal  four  of  Borrowdale, 
Joined  in  one  solemn  and  capacious  grove." 

The  "  golden  daffodils  "  are  still  here  in  rich  abundance — 

"  Beneath  the  lake,  beside  the  trees, 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze  !  " 

And  if  we  wander  there  in  spring-time,  we  cannot  fail  to  see 

"  A  primrose  by  a  river's  brim," 

and,  it  may  be,  an  ass 

"  Cropping  the  shrubs  of  Leming  Lane," 

to  recall  the  gentle  brute  that  would  not  leave  its  dead  master,  and  taught  the  savage 
potter  to  be  a  wiser  and  a  better  man.  There  are  violets  on  the  same  "mossy 
stone,"  "  half  hidden  from  the  eye  ;"  and  there  is  "  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  " 
— the  meek  daisy, — "  the  poet's  darling,"  "  the  unassuming  commonplace  of  nature," 
that  had  power  to  give  the  poet 

"  Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears." 

Still  the  butterflies  sparkle  from  bud  to  bud— descendants  of  those  he  chased  when  a 
boy,  with  "  leaps  and  springs,"  while  his  tender  sister  stood  by  : — 

"  But  she,  God  love  her  !  feared  to  brush 
The  dust  from  off  its  wings." 

Still  we  may  hear  the  cock  straining  its  clarion  throat, 

"  Threatened  by  answering  farms  remote.'' 

That  surely  is  the  very  redbreast  the  poet  welcomed  over  his  threshold  ;  the  whole 
house  was  his  cage.  He  springs  about  from  bank  to  bank,  now  along  the  Poet's 
Walk,  knowing  well  that  none  will  make  a  stir 

"  To  scare  him  as  a  trespasser." 

And  the  lark,  is  it  the  same  the  poet  hailed  "  upspringing,"  "  pilgrim  of  the  sky," 

"Type  of  the  wise  who  soar,  but  never  roam, 
True  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and  Home  1 " 

"  I  heard  a  stock-dove  sing  or  say 
His  homely  tale  this  very  day." 


No  doubt  it  is  the  bird  of  which  the  poet  sang  so  sweetly  and  so  oft.     Still 


'  Along  the  river's  stony  marge 

The  sand-lark  chants  a  joyous  song ; 
Ine  thrush  is  busy  in  the  wood, 
And  carols  loud  and  strong." 


There  are  all  the  mountains--  a  mob  of  mountains,"  as  Montgomery  called  them- 
go  where  wewiU  ;  and  the  lakes,  larger  and  lesser,  that  greet  the  eye  from  every 
hill-top  ;  majestic  Ullswater,  "  wooded  Winandermere""-"  shy  Winander  " 


'Mid  clusterinsr  isles  and  holly-sprinlded  st*eps ;" 


THE   HEAD   OF   WINDBEMBEE. 

lovely  Derwentwater,  lonely  Haweswater :  they  were,  each  and  all,  familiar  to  the 
poet  almost  as  his  own  Walk  above  the  Eotha  : — 

"  Ye  know  him  well,  ye  cliffs 
And  islands  of  Winander." 

They  all  knew  him,  and  of  all  he  was  the  Laureate.  The  "  brook  "  I  reverently 
cross  is  that 

"  Whose  society  the  poet  seeks, 
Intent  his  wasted  spirits  to  renew." 

It  runs  "  through  rocky  passes  among  flowery  creeks  ;  "  and  that  "  little  unpretend- 
ing rill  of  limpid  water  "  is  the  very  one  that,  to  his  mind,  was  brought  "  oftener 
than  Ganges  or  the  Nile." 

Is  that  "  Emma's  Dell  ?"  for  here  we  can  see 

"  The  foliage  of  the  rocks,  the  birch, 
The  yew,  the  holly,  and  the  bright  green  thorn, 
With  hanging  islands  of  resplendent  furze." 


3i6  MEMORIES. 


1 


"  To  note  the  shrub  and  tree,  in  stone  and  flower, 
That  intermixture  of  delicious  hues," 


Is  that  "Johanna's  Eock"  by  Rotha's  bank,  at  which  we  pause 
turning  to  look  up  at 

"  That  ancient  woman  seated  on  Helm  Crag  2 " 

Is  that  the  cHflf  "  so  high  above  us  " — an  "  eminence," 

"  The  last  that  parleys  with  the  setting  sun  ? " 

Is  that 

"  The  loneliest  place  we  have  amid  the  clouds  ? " 

Is  that  "  the  lonely  summit  "  to  which  his  beloved  gave  his  name  ?  Is  that  "  narrow 
girdle  of  rough  stones  and  crags,"  by  the  eastern  shore  of  Grrasmere — is  that  the 
place  the  poet  named  "  Point  Rash  Judgment,"  for  that  he  there  learned  and 
taught 

"  What  need  there  is  to  be  reserved  in  speech, 
And  temper  all  our  thoughts  with  Charity  3" 

At  least  we  may  rest  awhile  at  "  The  Swan  : " — 

"  Who  does  not  know  the  famous  Swan  ?  " 

The  small  wayside  hostelry  is  still  a  palpable  reality,  and  if  you  drink  nothing  else  at 
its  porch,  you  may  there  take  in  as  full  and  rich  a  draught  of  nature  as  any  country 
on  God's  earth  can  supply. 

These  are  the  "  facts  "  of  the  district :  the  poet  has  clothed  them  in  glory  and  in 
pride — living  realities — Romance  unveiled  by  Truth.  He  is,  as  John  Ruskin  says, 
"  the  great  poetic  landscape-painter  of  the  age."  He  did,  indeed,  so  paint  with 
words,  as  to  bring  vividly  before  the  mind's  eye  the  grandest  and  loveliest  things  in 
nature. 

But  who  can  walk  in  this  favoured  locality  without  calling  Fancy  to  his  aid  ?  I 
know  that  some  of  his  pictures  were  drawn  far  away  from  the  scenes  so  inseparably 
linked  with  his  name ;  but  it  will  be  hard  to  separate  any  one  of  them  from  the  dis- 
trict that  is  so  especially  his. 

[And  now  a  true  poet  (for  such  he  is,  although  I  know  not  if  he  has  ever  written 
verse)  has  his  dwelling  also  in  this  fair  district :  here  John  Ruskin,  as  did  William 
Wordsworth,  woos  and  worships  Nature.] 

It  is  the  high  privilege  of  genius — more  especially  it  is  that  of  the  poet — to  conse- 
crate the  common  things  of  life — 

"  Clothing  the  palpable  and  the  familiar 
With  golden  exhalations  of  the  dawn." 

Time  has  changed  many  of  them,  no  doubt ;  indeed,  we  know  that  ruthless  railroad 
layers  have  swept  away  some  of  the  "  nooks  of  English  ground  "  that  genius  had 
made  sacred  ;  but  others  remain  associated  with  the  poet's  history.  Let  all  who 
love  the  district,  and  have  power  there,  preserve  them,  as  they  would  the  cherished 
children  of  their  homes  and  hearts. 

The  plank  that  in  a  dell  half  up  Blencathra  crosses  yonder  stream,  under  which 
it  glides  so  gently,  now  that  summer,  self-satisfied,  laughs  from  the  mountain-tops — 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH. 


317 


is  that  the  plank  where  Lucy  Gray  left  her  footmarks  half-way  over,  when  the  storm 
was  loud  and  snow  was  a  foot  thick  above  the  perilous  pathway  ? 

"But  the  sweet  face  of  Lucy  Gray 
Will  never  more  be  seen." 

Is  that  "  straggling  heap  of  unhewn  stones  "  at  Green-head-ghyll  a  remainder  of 
the  sheepfold  reared  by  "  Michael  "  and  "  the  son  of  his  old  age,"  ere  the  boy 

"In  the  dissolute  city  gave  himself 
To  evil  courses," 


BYDAL   WATER  AND  NAB   SCAB. 


and  broke  the  old  man's  heart  ? 

Give  alms  to  the  "  female  vagrant  "  you  meet  in  highway  or  in  byway,  for  does 
she  not  recall  to  memory  her  whose  sad  story  was  poured  into  the  poet's  ear  ? — ■ 

"And  homeless,  near  a  thousand  homes,  I  stood, 
And  near  a  thousand  tables  pined,  and  wanted  food." 

Surely  charity  cannot  be  withheld  from  any  wayworn  beggar  you  encounter  on  the 
roadside  here.  That  thorn  must  be  the  very  thorn — "  so  old  and  grey" — under  the 
scant  shade  of  which  sat,  at  all  times  of  the  day  and  night,  that  lonely  woman, — 

"  In  misery  near  the  miserable  thorn," — 

whose  doleful  cry  was  "  Misery,  0  misery!"  Poor  Euth  !  that  maybe  the  very 
"  greenwood  tree  "  by  the  banks  of  Tone  under  which  she  sat ;  it  overhangs  the 
rocks  and  pools  she  loved — 

"  Nor  ever  taxed  them  with  the  ill 
That  had  been  done  to  her." 


3(8  MEMORIES. 

Will  it  not  well  repay  a  visit  to  distant  Ennerdale  to  read  the  story  of  "  The 
Brothers  "  beside  a  nameless  grave — to  see  the  grey-haired  mariner  standing  there, 
his  fraternal  home  desolate  ?  Ah  !  if  the  touching  tale  can  move  us  to  tears — 
"  a  gushing  of  the  heart  " — beside  a  city  home-fire,  what  may  it  not  do  in  that  lonely 
graveyard,  where  was  nor  epitaph,  nor  monument,  tombstone,  nor  name — 

"  Only  the  turf  we  tread !  " 

Is  that  the  fountain  where,  beneath  the  spreading  oak,  beside  a  mossy  seat  (we 
Fee  them  both),  there  talked  a  pair  of  friends,  though  one  was  young,  the  other 
seventy-two  ?  Was  it  beside  this  hedge,  on  this  highway,  the  shepherd  mourned 
the  "last  of  his  flock?" 

"  A  healthy  man,  a  man  full  grown, 
Weep  in  the  public  roads  alone  ? " 

That  little  maid—"  a  simple  child  " — is  she  the  great-grandchild  of  her—"  one  of 
seven  " — of  whom  two  slept  in  the  churchyard  beneath  the  churchyard  tree  ? 

"  Her  beauty  made  me  glad." 

Sitting  under  "  Dungeon-ghyll  Force,"  do  we  see  in  the  boys  who  saunter  there 
descendants  of  those  who,  having  "  no  work  to  do,"  watched  the  poet — 

"  One  who  loved  the  brooks 
Tar  better  than  the  sage's  books" — 

as  he  rescued  the  lamb  from  the  troubled  pool,  and  gave  it  to  its  mother  ? 

"  And  gently  did  the  bard 
Those  idle  shepherd-boys  upbraid." 

Let  us  search  for  the  roofless  hut  in  which  he  met  "  the  Wanderer,"  a  poet, 
"yet  wanting  the  accomplishment  of  verse;"  who  had  "small  need  of  books;" 
whose  character  was  God-made  ;  who  learned  from  nature  to  worship  Him  in  spirit 
and  in  truth.  Can  we  see  the  well,  "  shrouded  with  willow-flowers  and  plumy  fern," 
at  which  he  bade  the  poet  drink  ?  the  hut  in  which  "  the  wife  and  widow  "  dwelt, 
a-weary,  a-weary  for  the  beloved  who  never  came  ? 

"  If  he  lived, 
She  knew  not  that  he  lived  :  if  he  were  dead, 
She  knew  not  he  was  dead." 

Is  that  the  spot,  "  among  the  mountain  fastnesses  concealed,"  where  "lonesome  and 
lost  "  the  Solitary  lived, 

"At  a  safe  distance  fi-om  a  world 
Not  moving  to  his  mind  \ " 

Is  that  far-off  valley,  with  its  grey  church-tower,  environed  by  dwellings  "  single  or 
in  several  knots  "—is  that  the  valley  where  the  poet,  the  wanderer,  and  the  recluse 
encountered  the  good  priest,  discoursing  of  things  that  no  gross  ear  can  hear; 

"  And  to  the  highest  last. 
The  head  and  mighty  paramount  of  truths,— 
Immortal  life  in  never-fading  worlds 
For  mortal  creatures  conquered  and  secured  ? ' 

Is  that  indeed  the  veritable  "  churchyard  among  the  mountains  "  where  rest  so  much 


1 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH.  319 

of  human  joys  and  griefs,  hopes  and  blights — records  that  live  but  in  the  pastor's 
memory  ;  where  green  hillocks  only  mark  the  graves — 

"  Free 
From  interruption  of  sepulohral  stones  ? " 

But  I  might  go  on,  page  after  page,  touching  every  portion  of  the  sublime  and 
beautiful  district  where  the  poet  had  his  home  and  haunts,  for  you  can  hardly  move 
a  step,  or  turn  the  eye  on  a  single  point,  without  finding  something  he  has  given  to 
fame,  some  association  of  his  glory, — 

"Contented  if  he  might  enjoy 
The  things  which  others  understand ; " 

ever  preparing  a  feast  for  millions  upon  millions,  who  will  be  his  debtors  to  the  end 
of  time. 

He  lived  down  "  indifference,"  almost  the  only  human  malady  to  which  he  had 
been  subjected ;  he  lived  to  know  that  he  was  valued  in  a  measure  approaching 
desert ;  acknowledged  by  the  senate  and  "the  masses  "  as  a  benefactor  of  all  human- 
kind— not  for  a  day,  but  for  ever — in  high  and  holy  consciousness  that  he  had  done 
the  work  of  God  for  the  good  of  man.  To  William  Wordsworth  have  been,  and 
will  be,  given,  by  universal  accord,  as  long  as  language  can  utter  thought, 

"  Perpetual  benedictions  !  " 

Is  there  any  tourist — any  one  with  leisure  and  means — who  has  not  visited  the 
land  of  Wordsworth  ?  Shame  be  to  him  or  her  who  can  boast  of  having  visited  many 
countries  of  the  Continent  in  search  of  pleasure,  and  who  remains  in  guilty  ignorance 
of  the  charms  that  are  to  be  found  in  such  abundance  close  to  our  own  thresholds 
at  home ! 

What  a  volume  of  beauty  may  be  opened  by  those  who  spend  a  month — a  week 
— a  day — at  the  English  lakes  !  All  that  Nature  can  supply  of  the  graceful  and 
the  grand  are  within  easy  reach  ;  it  is  impossible  to  exaggerate  in  describing  the 
sublime  and  beautiful  of  this  locality,  accessible  within  a  few  hours  from  any  part  of 
England. 

I  cannot  think  the  man  or  woman  lives  who  can  dwell  even  for  a  brief  time  amid 
these  mountains  and  vales,  beside  these  lakes  and  rivers — with  Wordsworth  in  his 
hand — who  will  not  thank  God  for  the  intense  enjoyment  placed  at  his  command — 
not  the  less  to  be  valued  because  it  may  be  so  easily  obtained.  Yes,  far  too  often 
there  is  truth  in  the  poet's  lines — 

"  Thus  'tis  ever ;  what's  wifhin  our  ken, 
Owl-like,  we  blink  at,  and  direct  our  search 
To  furthest  Inde  in  quest  of  novelties ; 
Whilst  here,  at  home,  upon  our  very  thresholds, 
Ten  thousand  objects  hurtle  into  view, 
Of  interest  wonderful." 


1 


JOHN  WILSOIT. 

LTHOUGH  I  knew  Professor  Wilson  under  other,  and  always  plea- 
sant, circumstances,  I  associate  my  happiest  remembrance  of 
him  with  "  The  Festival"  that  took  place  in  the  pretty  and 
picturesque  town  of  Ayr,  on  the  6th  of  August,  1844,  when  a 
vast  assemblage  of  the  Scottish  people  tendered  homage  to 
the  memory  of  Robert  Burns,  by  welcoming  to  Scotland  his 
sons,  two  of  whom  had  been  absent  in  India  during  more  than 
a  quarter  of  a  century.  I  do  not  think  I  shall  try  the  patience 
of  my  readers  if  I  recall  that  exciting  scene  on  that  memorable 
day.  I  will  first  ask  them  to  accompany  me  to  a  compara- 
tively humble,  but  neat  and  comfortably- furnished,  cottage,  where  resided 
Mrs.  Begg,  the  sister  of  the  poet,  and  in  which  met,  on  the  evening  succeeding 
"the  day,"  all  the  members  of  his  family — his  sister,  her  children,  and  her 
husband's  brother,  the  poet's  three  sons,  and  the  daughter  of  Colonel  James 
Glencairn — the  only  "  strangers  "  (for  the  poet's  friend  and  biographer, 
McDiarmid,  was  no  stranger)  being  Mrs.  Hall  and  myself,  and  an  artist  whose  genius 
was  then  in  the  bud,  but  who  has  since  become  famous — Sir  Joseph  Noel  Baton, 
R.S.A.,  whose  friendship  we  have  had  the  happiness  to  retain  from  that  far-away 
time  to  this. 


JOHN  WILSON.  321 


Mrs.  Begg  was  a  plain  and  very  simple  woman,  obviously  of  a  gentle  and  kindly 
nature,  but  giving  no  evidence  that  to  her  had  been  allotted  any  portion  of  the 
intellectual  power  of  which  her  great  brother  had  so  much.  Her  sons  and  her 
daughter  were  in  no  way  remarkable.  Her  husband's  brother  wore  the  dress  of  a 
Scottish  peasant  of  the  better  class,  and,  I  believe,  had  never  aimed  at  any  position 
beyond  it.  He  spoke  of  "  Robbie  Burns  "  as  a  companion  with  whom  he  had  passed 
many  a  pleasant  day  and  merry  night,  and  wore  the  bonnet  and  plaid  as  he  had 
done  fifty  years  before  that  evening.  Robert  Burns,  the  eldest  son  of  Robert  Burns, 
died  long  ago.  He  is  said  to  have  greatly  resembled  his  illustrious  father.  I  give 
the  portrait  of  him  as  I  gave  it  in  1844: — "  His  eyes  are  large,  dark,  and  intelligent ; 


i^ 


c^ 


and  his  memory  is  stored  with  legends,  poems,  and  historical  records  of  great  value. 
These  materials  are  not  only  abundant,  but  well  arranged  and  ordered  ;  and  when  a 
question  is  asked,  intelligent  reply  is  ready.  His  conversation  is  rich  in  illustration, 
and  though  he  gracefully  said  '  the  mantle  of  Elijah  had  not  descended  upon  Elisha,' 
the  son  possesses  much  of  the  ability,  if  not  the  genius,  of  the  father."  The  other 
two  sons.  Colonel  William  Nicol  and  Colonel  James  Glencairn,  are  still  living  at 
Cheltenham  ;  and  no  gentlemen  in  that  favoured  town  of  retired  worth  are  more 
honoured  or  respected.*     Both  are  men  of  considerable  talent ;  they  have  not  been 


*  Alas'  within  a  few  hours  after  this  passage  was  written  (in  1865),  we  received  from  his  daughter  intimation 
of  the  death  rf  our  exoeUent  and  valued  friend  Lieut. -Colonel  James  Glenoairn  Burns  who  departed  this  hfe  at 
Cheltenham  S  November,  in  his  seventy-second  year.  He  was  essentially  a  man  of  high  moral  and  social  worth  ; 
of  Sies"o  means  limited  ;  he  had  written  things  not  unworthy  of  his  name ;  and  sang,  with  much  taste  and 


32: 


MEMORIES. 


called  upon  to  exert  it ;  but  pleasanter  companions  are  rarely  met.     It  is  a  treat  that 
many  have  enjoyed  to  hear  Colonel  James  sing  his  father's  songs. 

Such  was  the  group  we  met  in  that  homely  cottage  by  "  the  auld  brigg  "  at  Ayr 
on  the  eve  after  the  poet's  triumph — a  triumph  certainly  greater  than  any  that  has 
honoured  a  memory  in  Great  Britain  at  any  period  of  its  history. 


AUTOGRAPHS  OF  THE  BURNS  FAMILY. 


Mrs.  Hall  had   her  Album  with  her.     Colonel  James  Glencairn   had  previousl 
written  in  it ;  his  name  being  prefaced  by  the  following  : — 

"  This  is  confessedly  a  collection  of  the  autographs  of  '  Lions  ; '  and  as  it  is  impos- 
sible Mrs.  Hall  can  get  that  of  the  Lion  my  father,  she  probably  thinks  the  next  best 
thing  is  to  obtain  that  of  one  of  his  Cubs.  I  therefore  have  much  pleasure  in  tran- 
scribing, at  her  request,  the  first  verse  of  the  addi^ess  to  a  mountain  daisy." 

feeling,  some  of  his  great  father's  songs.  To  the  memory  of  that  father  he  was  intensely  attached,  proud  of  the 
name  he  bore,  and  always  delighted  when  Burns  was  a  theme  of  talk.  The  other  brother,  Colonel  William  Niool 
is  also  dead.  Colonel  Janfes  has  left  a  daughter  unmarried,  and  she  is,  I  believe,  the  only  one  of  the  descendants  of 
Eobert  Burns  (the  other  brothers  having  left  no  children),  if  we  except  the  sons  and  daughters  of  Mrs.  Begw, 


JOHN   WILSOX.  323 


When  assembled  in  that  cottage  at  Ayr,  it  was  suggested  by  our  friend  the 
Colonel  that  on  the  page  which  contained  his  name  and  the  passage  quoted,  the 
names  of  the  other  members  of  the  family  should  follow,  as  they  never  had  met  all 
together  before,  and  most  probably  would  never  meet  all  together  again.  My  readers 
will,  I  am  sure,  be  pleased  to  see  these  autographs  as  they  were — then  and  there — 
written. 

A  dull  and  gloomy  morning  ushered  in  "  the  day."  Nevertheless,  upwards  of 
eighty  thousand  persons  were  "  gathered  "  at  Ayr.  They  came  from  all  parts  of  the 
kingdom,  and  some  from  foreign  lands.  The  town  was  full  of  triumphal  arches — 
"forests  of  evergreens"  at  every  point  associated  with  the  poet's  history;  proces- 
sions of  people  fancifully  dressed ;  Lodges  of  Freemasons,  Foresters,  and  Odd 
Fellows  ;  and  the  trades, — weavers,  tailors,  bootmakers,  and  so  forth, — with  no  lack 
of  bands  ;  and  at  least  a  score  of  bagpipes  heading  parties  of  stalwart  Highlandmen, 
each  playing  his  own  pibroch,  all  of  them  "  in  harmony." 

At  one  end  of  a  field  was  a  platform,  on  the  first  bench  of  which  sat  the  family 
of  Robert  Burns.  Before  them,  the  multitude  pf|,ssed  in  orderly  procession,  pausing 
when  they  reached  the  point,  and  bowing  in  homage  to  the  sons  of  the  poet  ;  then 
marching  on  to  the  music  with  which  every  pne  of  them  was  familiar,  and  joining  in 
a  song,  the  words  of  which  were  known  all  the  world  over.  When  all  had  thus 
passed,  they  collected  into  a  mass,  and  raised  a  cheer  such  as  can  be  heard  nowhere 
else  in  the  world — literally  eighty  thousand  voices  of  eighty  thousand  hearts  ! 

It  was  not  difficult  to  distinguish  those  to  whom  chiefly  appertained  that  day  the 
glory  and  the  triumph ;  the  honest  lads  apd  bonnie  lasses,  workers  at  the  loom, 
tillers  of  the  soil,  who,  belonging  to  "  the  land  of  Burns,"  had  their  full  share  of 
his  renown  ;  and  never,  perhaps,  in  the  history  of  any  country  has  there  been  such 
conclusive  evidence  that  a  people,  nine-tenths  of  whom  were  the  grandchildren  of 
his  co-mates,  identified  themselves  with  a  poet  who  had  been  half  a  century  in  his 
grave. 

On  the  platform — on  the  seat  immediately  beneath  us — sat  a  man  of  powerful 
frame,  large-limbed  and  tall,  who  in  youth  was  of  a  surety  "  the  best  wrestler  on  the 
green,"  and  who  in  age  seemed  one  of  the  elder  sons  of  Anak,  of  whose  "boisterous 
vigour"  many  pens  and  tongues  have  written  and  spoken.  Look  at  his  massive 
head,  his  clear  grey  eye,  his  firm-set  and  finely-chiselled  mouth,  his  broad  and 
intellectual  brow,  and  you  will  be  sure  it  is  not  physical  force  alone  that  makes  him 
greatest  of  the  many  great  men  by  whom  he  is  surrounded.  His  hair,  thin  and 
grizzled  and  unusually  long,  was  moved  by  the  breeze  as  he  rose  to  speak — in  a 
voice  manly  as  his  form,  richly  and  truly  eloquent.  He  was  master  of  his  theme, 
and  loved  it ;  but  then  aud  there  a  stoic  would  have  been  an  enthusiast,  with  the 
cheers  of  such  a  multitude  booming  in  his  ears. 

That  was  John  Wilson. 

While  he  was  speaking,  and  his  long  thin  locks  waved  about  in  the  wind,  I 
thought  I  might  steal  imperceptibly,  at  such  a  momect,  a  single  hair.  I  saw  one 
that  I  believed  had  been  accidentally  detached,  and  I  ran  the  hazard  of  taking  it. 
The  Proiessor  felt  the  touch,  and  turning  instantly  round,  flashed  upon  me  one  of 

Y  2 


324 


MEMORIES. 


1 


those  fierce  looks  of  which  I  had  heard  so  much  from  those  who  had  seen  the 
"lurking  devil  in  his  keen  grey  eye  ; "  but  at  once  perceiving  that  no  insult  was 
meant,  and  perhaps  appreciating  the  motive  of  the  theft,  as  I  murmured  out  some- 
thing like  "  It  is  but  one  to  keep  for  ever,"  his  lips  as  suddenly  assumed  a  smile  of 
loveable  grace  such  as  might  have  won  the  heart  of  an  enemy.  That  "  single  hair" 
is  on  my  table  as  I  write. 


THE   BIRTHF'LACB   OF   WILSON. 


From  the  platform  there  was  an  adjournment  of  the  "  select " — but  the  select 
consisted  of  two  thousand  persons — to  a  monster  tent  or  "  pavilion  "  that  had  been 
erected  to  receive  the  guests  at  the  dinner.  The  President  was  the  good,  graceful, 
and  gracious  Earl  of  Eglintoun,  whose  two  memorable  words,  "  Eepentant  Scotland," 
had  an  enduring  echo  there  that  day  in  every  Scottish  heart.  There  was  a  gathering 
of  Scottish  "  men  of  mark  "  ranged  on  either  side  of  the  noble  chairman,  following  in 
order  :  the  sons  of  Burns  on  his  right,  and  the  sister  and  her  children  on  his  left ; 


JOHN  WILSON.  325 


with  some  of  the  poet's  early  friends  ;  and  one,  a  venerable  matron  then,  who,  when 
a  blooming  lass  of  sweet  seventeen,  had  been  the  subject  of  his  verse.  Among  the 
guests  were  Alison,  Aytoun,  Glasford  Bell,  "  Delta"  Moir,  Charles  Mackay,  and  the 
brothers,  William  and  Robert  Chambers.*  And  good  right  had  Eobert  Chambers  to 
be  there,  foremost  among  the  men  whom  the  people  delight  to  honour  ;  for,  but  for 
his  exertions,  near  relatives  of  the  great  poet — to  render  homage  to  whose  memory 
the  tens  of  thousands  had  assembled — would  have  had  to  bear  neglected  penury 
instead  of  independent  comfort.  Scotland  owes  to  these  admirable  brothers  a  debt 
the  extent  of  which  it  would  be  difficult  to  calculate. 

But  on  that  day  of  glory  the  assembly  of  the  "  aristocracy  "  of  Eank  and  Letters 
was  far  too  small ;  from  England  and  Ireland  there  were  few  guests,  while  Scotland 
did  not  contribute  a  fourth  of  the  number  she  ought  to  have  sent  to  the  gathering. 
Its  glory  and  its  triumph  were  to  "  the  common  people  ;"  and  certainly  the  appear- 
ance of  these — for  whom  tents  had  been  provided — was  an  object  of  even  higher 
importance  than  the  assembling  of  the  "  select." 

As  we  looked  upon  the  heaving  multitude,  we  could  not  avoid  thinking  that  if  all 
the  preparations  for  the  banquet  had  suddenly  disappeared,  the  manifestation  of 
respect  on  the  part  of  the  people  towards  their  poet  would  have  been  accomplished — 
the  heart-beatings  of  Scotland  as  thoroughly  exhibited,  if  no  pavilion,  with  its  tasteful 
draperies  and  elevated  galleries,  had  been  planted  on  the  banks  of  the  river  that 
waters  the  land  of  Burns.  Who  that  witnessed  the  glorious  sight  can  have  ceased  to 
remember  the  fervent  looks  of  the  old  and  middle-aged,  the  tearful  eyes  and  excla- 
mations of  the  young,  the  eagerness  with  which  parents  pointed  out  to  their  children 
the  grey-haired  sons  of  the  poet  they  delighted  to  honour?  On,  and  on,  and  on, 
they  came,  in  peace  and  harmony,  disturbed  by  no  jarring  feelings,  moved  by  no 
political  object,  warmed  by  the  genial  influence  of  the  tenderest  and  most  elevated 
patriotism.  The  shouts  of  the  people  were  echoed  by  the  enthusiastic  cheers  of  the 
noblemen  and  gentlemen  who  were  on  the  platform,  while  the  tears  of  the  fairer 
portion  of  the  assembly  proved  how  deeply  they  sympathised  with  the  great  purpose 
all  had  met  to  commemorate.  As  long  as  the  procession  was  in  progress,  the  men 
who  composed  it  refrained  from  any  manifestation  of  their  feelings  beyond  lowering 
their  banners,  uncovering  their  heads,  and  gazing  upon  the  poet's  sons ;  but  when 
the  gigantic  thistle,  the  emblem  of  their  native  country,  closed  the  procession,  and 
had  been  not  only  honoured,  but  divided  and  borne  off  blossom  by  blossom,  and  leaf 
by  leaf,  as  mementoes  of  the  "  field  of  Burns,"  there  was  a  rush  of  human  beings 
back  towards  the  platform,  and  eager  hands  were  upstretched  from  below  to  grasp 
the  hands  of  the  family  of  the  poet. 

Yet  it  was  a  most  exciting  scene  within  the  pavilion,  where  nearly  two  thousand 
persons,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  were  seated.  We  recall  their  fervid  enthusiasm  when 
the  noble  chairman  rose  and  proposed  the  memory  of  Robert  Burns — '"drunk  in 


*  Since  this  was  -written,  William  Chambers  has  been  Provost  of  Edinburgh ;  one  of  the  highest,  if  not  the 
very  highest,  positions  in  the  world  to  which  a  "  gentleman  in  trade  "  can  attain.  Robert  Chambers  has,  however, 
been  elevated  to  a  far  loftier  rank.  He  is  now  with  the  glorified  saints  who  in  heaven  continue  work  commenced  on 
earth. 


326  MEMORIES. 


\ 


solemn  silence,"  but  followed  a  few  minutes  afterwards  by  a  shout  such  as  is  seldom 
beard  more  tban  once  in  a  lifetime.  Tbd  Earl  of  Eglintoun  was  then  in  his  zenith — 
a  thorough  "  gentleman"  in  look,  in  manner,  and  in  heart.  His  address  was  brief, 
pithy,  and  condensed,  yet  remarkably  conclusive  and  comprehensive.  It  was,  indeed, 
an  example  of  true  eloquence — if  eloquence  is  to  be  estimated  by  effect  produced. 
There  was  in  it  no  word  too  much — not  a  syllable  that  might  have  been  as  well  left 
unsaid. 

Then  Professor  Wilson  rose  to  "  welcome  the  sons  of  Burns."  He  was  "  in  his 
glory."  His  robust  and  manly  form  appeared  to  grow  under  his  theme,  his  magni- 
ficent head  positively  seemed  to  roll  about  over  his  huge  shoulders,  and  his  large 
hands  to  sweep  away  all  let  and  hindrance  to  his  gigantic  energy. 

I  cannot  attempt  to  give  the  toasts  that  followed  ;  among  them  "  Wordsworth 
and  the  Poets  of  England"- — "Moore  and  the  Poets  of  Ireland."  The  latter  was 
proposed  by  Henry  Glasford  Bell ;  and  in  the  course  of  his  eloquent  speech  he  took 
occasion  to  introduce  the  name  of  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall  thus  : — "  I  have  to-day  seen  that 
not  the  gifted  sons  alone,  but  also  some  of  the  gifted  daughters,  of  Ireland  have  come 
as  pilgrims  to  the  shrine  of  Burns — that  one  in  particular — one  of  the  most  distin- 
guished of  that  fair  sisterhood  who  give  by  their  talents  additional  lustre  to  the  geijius 
of  the  present  day — has  paid  her  first  visit  to  Scotland  that  she  might  be  present  on 
this  occasion,  and  whom  I  have  myself  seen  moved  even  to  tears  by  the  glory  of  the 
gathering.  She  is  one  who  has  thrown  additional  light  on  the  antiquities,  manners, 
scenery,  and  traditions  of  Ireland,  and  Avhose  graceful  and  truly  feminine  works  are 
known  to  us  all,  and  whom  we  are  proud  to  see  among  us." — (Blackwood.Y' 

I  cannot  give  even  an  outline  of  the  Professor's  speech,  which  occupied  full  an 
hour.  Perhaps  the  apologies  he  offered  for  the  failings  and  shortcomings  of  the  poet 
might  have  been  spared,  and  were  considered  out  of  keeping  with  the  occasion  ;  f 
still  it  was  a  most  masterly  discourse  ;  and  those  who  heard  it  can  never  forget  the 
wild  burst  of  applause  that  followed  his  concluding  sentence, — "  We  rise  to  welcome 
you  to  your  father's  land."  The  whole  assembly  rose  with  a  loud  and  long-continued 
cheer. 

My  readers  will  believe  the  event  to  be  the  most  exciting  of  all  our  "  Memories." 
It  is  inseparably  associated  (I  shall  never  desire  to  separate  them)  with  the  memory 
of  Professor  Wilson — the  Burns  Festival,  where  so  many  living  worthies,  linked 
hand  in  hand  with  the  Ploughman  and  the  Artisan,  assembled  in  earnest  homage  to 
glorify  the  illustrious  dead. 

"  To  live  in  hearts  we  leave  behind 
Is  not  to  die." 

John  Wilson  was  born  on  the  18th  of  Msy,  1785,  in  a  "somewhat  gloomy-looking 
house  in  a  dingy  court  at  the  head  of  tbe  High  Street,"  Paisley.     The  house  is  still 

*  My  readers  will  not,  I  hope,  consider  me  as  materially  departing  from  the  rule  I  have  laid  down  in  these 
"  Memories  "  of  introducing  little  concerning  ourselves,  if  I  am  unwilling  to  resist  the  temptation  to  "clu-onicle" 
this  event. 

t  The  Professor  printed  it  in  extenso  m  Blackwood' s  Magazine.  I  know  that  it  gave  greater  pain  than  pleasure  to 
those  who  were  more  immediately  held  in  honour  that  day.  Colonel  James  Burns  has  more  than  once  expressed 
that  feeling  to  me.  I  did  not  hold  the  opinion  he  did,  but  I  could  easily  understand  that  some  of  the  Professor's 
allusions  to  his  father  fell  very  far  short  of  giving  him  content. 


JOHN   WILSON.  32; 


standing,  being  "preserved"  for  public  uses,  under  the  name  of  "Wilson's  Hall."* 
His  father  was  a  wealthy  man,  having  realised  a  fortune  in  trade  as  a  gauze  manu- 
facturer, and  was  respected  for  social  worth  and  moral  integrity.  His  mother  is 
described  as  "beautiful,  of  rare  intellect,  wit,  humour,  wisdom,  and  grace."  The 
boy  John  was  "precocious,"  physically  and  intellectually;  "foremost  in  the  play- 
ground and  in  the  task  ;  "  running  a  race  against  ponies  while  yet  a  child  ;  in  youth 
surpassing  men  in  bodily  feats,  and  in  early  manhood  excelling  all  competitors  in 
strength  of  arm  and  swiftness  of  foot.  Almost  from  his  birth  to  his  death,  as  one  of 
his  friends  wrote  long  afterwards,  "  whatever  he  did  was  done  with  all  his  soul." 

In  June,  1803,  he  entered  as  a  gentleman  commoner  at  Magdalen  College,  Oxford, 
having  been  previously  "  well-educated"  at  Glasgow.  His  father  left  him  an  "  unen- 
cumbered fortune  of  £50,000."  Thus  endowed,  with  rare  personal  advantages,  "  the 
world  was  all  before  him,  where  to  choose,"  in  a  sense  very  different  from  that  which 
applies  generally  to  the  heir  of  the  Muses.  Yet,  so  early  as  1807,  he  selected  an 
abiding-place  on  the  banks  of  Wihdermete,  and  the  cdttdge  of  EUeray  was  his  home 
until  the  year  1815. 

When  at  Oxford,  and  indeed  everywhere,  he  hdd  the  acquaintance  of  the  refined 
and  the  rough — the  learned  and  the  ignorant— the  "  brutal,"  indeed.  Dr.  Eouth, 
the  President  of  his  College  at  Oxford,  was  his  friend  ;  but  his  "  friends  "  also  were 
the  "  grooms,  the  cobblers,  and  the  stable-boys."  He  gave  wide  scope  for  scandal, 
but  such  were  the  joyousness  of  his  nature,  the  buoyancy  of  his  big  heart,  and  his 
many  endearing  qualities  ;  so  prominent  also  were  his  powers  as  a  student  and  a 
scholar — his  after-fame  being  clearly  foreseen — that  his  eccentricities  were  visited 
with  no  heavy  penalties,  and  he  passed  from  the  University  with  honour,  if  not  with 
unmingled  respect. 

I  have  given  my  own  portrait  of  Wilsbn  as  I  saw  him,  and  heard  him  speak,  in 
1844  ;  I  may  add  that  6i  Mr.  Aird,  the  editor  of  the  Dumfriesshire  Herald,  when 
writing  of  the  Burns  Festival,  and  in  reference  to  the  Professor's  speech  on  that 
memorable  occasion: — "Now  broad  in  humour;  now  spdrtive  and  playful;  now 
sarcastic,  scornful,  and  searchiiig  ;  now  calmly  philosophic  in  criticism  ;  now  thought- 
ful and  solemn,  large  of  '  reverent  discourse,  Iboking  bfefore  and  after '  with  all  the 
sweetest  by-plays  of  humanity,  with  every  rfeco'nciling  sdftness  of  charity, — such  in 
turns,  and  in  quickest  intermingled  tissue  of  the  ethereal  wobf,  have  been  the  many 
illustrations  which  this  large-minded,  large-hearted  Scotchman,  in  whose  character 
there  is  neither  corner  nor  cranny,  has  poured  in  the  very  prodigality  of  his  aliec- 
tionate  abundance  around  and  over  the  name  and  the  fame  of  Robert  Burns." 

Talfourd,  considering  him  as  an  editor,  and  contrasting  him  with  Campbell  in 
that  capacity,  speaks  of  his  "  boisterous  vigour,  riotous  in  power,  reckless  in 
wisdom,  fusing  the  productions  of  various  intellects  into  one  brilliant  reflex  of  his 
own  master  mind ;  "  and  Hallam  describes  him  as  a  "  writer  of  the  most  ardent  and 
enthusiastic  genius,  whose  eloquence  is  as  the  rush  of  mighty  waters." 


*  It  is  a  large  stone-built  house,  situate  in  the  main  street  of  Paisley.    At  the  time  of  Wilson's  birth  it  was 
one  goodly  mansion  ;  it  is  now  divided  into  separate  tenements. 


528  MEMORIES. 


1 


>  In  1812,  Scott,  in  a  letter  to  Joanna  Baillie,  referred  to  him  as  a  "  young  man  of 
very  extraordinary  powers" — "an  eccentric  genius" — "a  warm-hearted  and  enthu- 
siastic young  man  " — "  something  too  much,  perhaps,  of  the  latter  quality  places 
him  among  the  list  of  originals." 

De  Quincey  writes,  in  1808,  of  "his  large  expansion  of  heart,  and  a  certain  air 
of  noble  frankness."  "  He  seemed  to  have  an  intense  enjoyment  of  life."  Young, 
rich,  healthy,  and  full  of  intellectual  activity  then,  with  no  care,  present  or  fore- 
shadowed, how  could  it  have  been  otherwise  ? 

James  Hogg,  in  one  of  his  lay-sermons,  says, — "Professor  Wilson's  conversation 
is  rich  and  brilliant ;  but  then  he  takes  sulky  fits.  If  there  be  anybody  in  the  com- 
pany whom  he  does  not  like,  the  party  will  not  get  much  out  of  him  for  that  night ; 
his  eyes  gleam  like  those  of  a  dragon  ;  and  a  poet  says  of  him  (Wordsworth,  I  think), 
'  He  utters  a  short  lieml  at  every  pause,  but  further  ventures  not.'  " 

The  poetry  of  Professor  Wilson  has  not  attained  the  popularity  to  which  it  is 
entitled ;  probably  because,  when  he  first  published,  he  had  to  compete  with  a 
formidable  rival  in  his  own  illustrious  countryman,  and  the  fame  which,  in  England, 
nearly  at  the  same  period,  was  about  to  absorb  that  of  all  other  bards.  His  poems 
are,  however,  full  of  beauty  ;  they  have  all  the  freshness  of  the  heather  ;  a  true  relish 
for  nature  breaks  out  in  them  all ;  there  is  no  puerile  or  sickly  sentimentalism ;  they 
are  the  earnest  breathings  of  a  happy  and  buoyant  spirit ;  a  giving  out,  as  it  were,  of 
the  breath  that  has  been  inhaled  among  the  mountains.  They  manifest,  moreover, 
the  finest  sympathies  with  humanity  ;  nothing  harsh  or  repining  seems  to  have  entered 
the  poet's  thoughts ;  they  may  be  read  as  compositions  of  the  highest  merit, — as 
bearing  the  severest  test  of  critical  asperity  ;  but  also  as  graceful  and  beautiful  tran- 
scripts of  Nature,  when  her  grace  and  beauty  are  felt  and  appreciated  by  all.  There 
is  no  evidence  of  "  fine  frenzy  "  in  his  glances  "  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to 
heaven  ;  "  but  there  is  ample  proof  of  the  depth  of  his  worship,  and  the  fulness  of 
his  affection  for  all  the  objects  which  "  nature's  God"  has  made  graceful  and  fruitful. 

He  was  ever  gentle  and  kindly,  and  meek  and  humble — in  verse ;  holy  and  tran- 
quillising  was  the  influence  he  obtained  by  associating  with  the  Muses.  It  was  only 
in  prose  he  was  harsh,  uncompromising,  and  bitter ;  yet  in  his  criticisms  there  was 
always  evidence  of  a  sound  heart — of  a  nature  like  the  Highland  breezes  he  loved  to 
breast — keen,  biting,  but  healthy ;  often  most  invigorating  when  most  severe,  but  to 
be  safely  encountered  only  by  those  whose  stamina  was  unquestionable. 

On  the  banks  of  Windermere  he  had  his  "full  fling"  of  "animal  delights" — 
racing,  leaping,  wrestling,  boxing,  fishing,  boating,  and  cock-fighting— one  of  the 
sports  in  which  our  not  far-ofi"  ancestors  indulged  as  the  "  manly  "  English.  And  if 
there  be  ample  testimony  to  his  lofty  genius  and  social  worth,  there  is  certainly  quite 
as  much  to  uphold  the  declaration  of  one  of  his  comrades  for  a  time: — "  It  was  a' 
life  an'  murth  amang  us  as  lang  as  Professor  Wilson  was  at  Wasd'le  Heed." 

He  dearly  loved  the  gentle  craft  of  the  angler.  Dogs  were  his  familiar  friends, 
but  so  were  other  animals.  From  the  horse  to  the  spider  they  were  objects  of  study 
that  gave  him  pleasure — generally  healthy  pleasure,  but  sometimes  pleasure  that  was 
not  so.     He  had  large  humanity — earnest  love  of  all  things  in  nature.     For  dogs  his 


JOHN   WILSON. 


329 


affection  was  intense,  and  many  curious  illustrative  anecdotes  are  told  of  that  passion. 
Especially  he  loved  all  things  that  needed  help.  For  nearly  eleven  years  he  kept  in 
his  room  a  sparrov^r  he  had  found,  scarcely  fledged,  on  his  door-step.  Who  that  has 
read  can  have  forgotten  his  terrific  anathema  against  those  who  were  more  than  sus- 
pected of  having  poisoned  his  dog  Bronte,  in  revenge  for  his  awful  denunciation  of 
those  who  had  "  patronised  "  the  butchers  Hare  and  Burke  ? 

Yet  there  is  abundant  evidence  that  the  fierce  leopard  of  "  Maga  "  could  be  as 
gentle  as  a  lamb — that  the  giant  could  use  a  giant's  strength  as  tenderly  as  a  young 
mother  nursing  her  first-born.  Let  us  picture  the  Professor  as  he  was  seen  one  day, 
long  after  the  period  to  which  I  am  now  referring,  with  a  carter's  whip  in  his  hand, 


ELLEBAY,   THE  DWELLING   OF   "WILSON. 


walking  beside  a  miserable  horse  through  Edinburgh  streets.  He  had  released  the 
animal  from  a  brute  far  more  worthless,  had  unharnessed  him  from  a  cart  full  of  coal, 
upset  the  coal  into  the  street,  given  the  carter  one  blow,  and  promised  him  another, 
and  left  the  fellow,  utterly  astonished,  "  gaping  wide-mouthed,"  and  speechless,  as  he 
followed  the  horse  to  the  charge  of  the  police. 

Notwithstanding  his  somewhat  perilous  attractions,  he  found  a  wife  worthy  of 
him.  Miss  Jane  Penny  was  "the  belle  of  the  Lake  district" — as  good  as  she  was 
beautiful — "whom  he  had  sensibility  to  love,  ambition  to  attempt,  and  skill  to  win." 
In  May,  1811,  he  married.  In  1815  he  was  called  to  the  Scottish  Bar,  having  quitted 
"dear  sycamore-sheltered  EUeray  "  in  consequence  of  a  breach  of  trust  on  the  part 
of  a  "  guardian  "  that  deprived  him  of  nearly  all  his  property. 

Elleray  is  a  nest  in  the  midst  of  mountains,  in  an  elevated  dell  surrounded  by 


330  MEMORIES. 


1 


foregrounds  of  great  beauty,  sequestered  and  secluded,  commanding  views  of  sur- 
passing loveliness  and  of  exceeding  grandeur.  The  sight  is  at  once  graceful  and 
magnificent,  and  no  marvel  that  the  poet  loved  it  with  his  whole  heart.  This  is 
De  Quincey's  desc.ription  of  EUeray  : — "  Within  a  bow-shot  of  each  other  may  be 
found  stations  of  the  deepest  seclusion,  fenced  in  by  verdurous  heights,  and  present- 
ing a  limited  scene  of  beauty — deep,  solemn,  noiseless,  severely  sequestered — and 
other  stations  of  a  magnificence  so  gorgeous  as  few  estates  in  this  island  can  boast, 
and,  of  those  few,  perhaps  none  in  such  close  connection  with  a  dwelling-house. 
Stepping  out  from  the  very  windows  of  the  drawing-room,  you  find  yourself  on  a 
terrace,  which  gives  you  the  feeling  of  a  '  specular  height '  such  as  you  might  expect 
on  Ararat,  or  more  appropriately  conceive  on  '  Athos  seen  from  Samothrace.'  "  Mrs. 
Gordon  adds  that  "  Windermere  is  best  seen  from  Elleray — every  point  and  bay, 
island  and  cove,  lying  there  unveiled." 

The  cottage  is  now  denuded  of  its  "  profusion  of  jasmine,  clematis,  and  honey- 
suckle." The  trellis  no  longer  "  clusters  with  wild  roses,"  but  the  gigantic  syca- 
more still  flourishes,  and  overshadows  the  lowly  dwelling  that  was  so  long  the 
home  of  the  poet.  He  dearly  loved  that  tree.  "  Never  in  this  well- wooded 
world,"  he  writes,  "not  even  in  the  days  of  the  Druids,  could  there  have  been 
such  another."  "  Oh,  sweetest  and  shadiest  of  all  sycamores,  we  love  thee  above  all 
other  trees ! " 

Not  far  ofi"  was  Keswick,  where  the  high-souled  Southey  lived,  and  Eydal,  where 
great  Wordsworth  communed  with  Nature.  Thither,  as  to  a  cool  fountain,  came  the 
man  in  his  buoyant  and  hearty  youthhood  ;  there  his  favourite  pursuits  were  to  the 
full  enjoyed.  He  had  "  a  fleet  of  yachts"  on  the  lake.  He  excelled  in  all  manly 
exercises  and  field  sports  ;  on  road,  field,  flood,  foot,  or  horseback,  he  was  equally  at 
home.  In  wrestling  he  had  few  equals,  being,  as  a  professor  of  the  "  noble  art  of 
self-defence  "  described  him,  "  a  vera  bad  un  to  lick."^-^ 

In  the  summer  of  1865  I  paid  a  visit  to  Elleray,  to  the  cottage  in  which  he  dwelt 
during  the  earlier  part  of  his  residence  in  the  district,  and  to  the  comparatively 
sumptuous  house  he  built,  and  which  was  afterwards  for  many  years  his  home. 

"  And  sweet  that  dwelling  rests  upon  the  brow, 
Beneath  that  sycamore  of  Orest  Hill, 
As  if  it  smiled  on  Wiadermere  below." 

It  occupies  a  commanding  site  above  the  eastern  bank  of  Windermere,  and  near  to 
the  picturesque  town  of  Bowness ;  consequently,  the  views  are  supremely  grand  and 
beautiful.  There  are  many  houses  all  about  it  now.  A  railway  terminus  discharges 
its  cargo  thrice  a  day  close  to  the  gate  that  leads  to  the  well-wooded  grounds  of  the 
"  mansion,"  and  probably  the  nightingales  and  cushat  doves  have  been  chased  from 
the  locality.     It  would  no  doubt  grieve  the  great  Nature-lover  to  hear  the  shrieking 

*  The  gardener  at  EUeray  told  me  a  story  of  the  Professor.  No  doubt  many  such  stories  are  rife  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. He  had  challenged /we  potters,  brothers,  to  fight  (potters  are  tramps)  the  whole  of  them.  He  led  them  into 
his  sitting-room,  cleaied  for  the  purpose,  locked  the  door,  put  the  key  into  his  pocket,  and  told  them  to  set  to.  One 
after  another  they  were  "floored"  beneath  his  stalwart  arm  and  "profound"  science.  At  length  one  of  them 
ci  awled  along,  entnngled  himself  in  his  legs,  and  Wilson  fell.  The  five  set  upon  him  together  then  as  he  lay  on  the 
ground,  and  would  ceitainly  have  killed  him,  but  that  his  servants  burst  in  the  door,  and  rushed  to  his  rescue. 


yOHN   WILSON.  33  ( 


"  whistle "  in  their  stead;  but  there  are  some  things  even  civil  engineers  cannot 
destroy  :  the  outlook  from  the  hall-door  at  EUeray  is  one  of  them. 

Mrs.  Hemans  thus  writes  of  EUeray  : — "  I  never  saw  any  landscape  bearing  so 
triumphant  a  character.  The  house,  which  is  beautiful,  seems  built  as  if  to  overlook 
some  fairy  pageant,  something  like  the  Venetian  splendour  of  old,  on  the  glorious 
lake  beneath." 

In  1817 — a  memorable  year  for  letters — was  commenced  the  publication  of 
Blackwood's  Magazine,  so  inseparably  linked  with  the  name  of  Wilson  from  its  birth 
to  his  death.  The  Edinbnryh  Review  was  then  in  its  prime.  To  that  work  Wilson 
contributed  one  article — his  first  and  his  last — a  review  of  Byron ;  but  the  Tories 
were  a  powerful  party  in  Edinburgh,  and  some  of  them  resolved  that  the  Whigs 
should  not  have  it  "  all  their  own  way." 

One  of  two  who  suggested  the  idea  to  Mr.  William  Blackwood,  an  enterprising 
publisher  in  Edinburgh,  was  Thomas  Peingle,  "  a  pleasant  poet,"  who  afterwards 
emigrated  to  South  Africa,  from  which  he  subsequently  returned,  and  became  editor 
of  the  Friendship's  Offering,  one  of  the  annuals,  published  first  by  Lupton  Relfe,  a 
bookseller  in  Cornhill,  and  afterwards  by  Smith  and  Elder. 

I  knew  Pringle  somewhat  intimately.  He  was  a  kindly  and  courteous  gentleman, 
with  limited  literary  power,  but  with  much  taste  and  feeling  for  literature  and  for 
art.  What  was  his  occupation  at  the  Cape  I  cannot  say.  He  could  not  have  been 
an  "  effective  settler,"  for  he  was  lame — so  lame,  indeed,  as  to  be  compelled  to  use 
a  crutch.  His  politics  got  him  into  "  a  scrape  "  with  the  authorities  at  Cape  Town. 
He  was  compelled  to  quit  the  colony,  and  strove  to  exist  as  an  author  in  London, 
where  not  long  afterwards  he  died.  Those  who  desire  to  know  more  of  him  may  read 
his  "  Narrative  of  a  Residence  in  South  Africa."  I  published  some  of  his  stray 
pieces  and  poems  in  the  British  Magazine,  a  work  I  then  conducted.  They  were 
never,  I  believe,  collected. 

The  first  number  of  the  Edinburgh  Monthly  Magazine  was  issued  by  Mr.  Black- 
wood in  April,  1817.  Its  infancy  was  weak  and  unpromising.  Misunderstandings 
having  arisen  between  Blackwood  and  the  then  editors — Messrs.  Cleghorn  and 
Pringle — they  withdrew.  The  title  was  changed,  and  in  October,  1817,  was  issued 
Blackwood's  Edinburgh  Magazine.  It  began  in  a  storm ;  a  ferocious  spirit  influenced 
the  leading  writers  from  the  first.  "  The  Mohawks  of  the  press,"  as  Lady  Morgan 
afterwards  styled  them,  produced  something  like  a  shudder,  and  excited  an  amount 
of  wrath  scarcely  conceivable  nowadays  ;  for  there  was  such  abundant  evidence  of 
high  ability  in  all  its  departments,  that  no  one  could  despise,  however  much  he 
hated.  Later  in  its  history,  Leigh  Hunt,  in  the  Liberal,  described  its  writers  as  "  a 
troop  of  Yahoos,  or  a  tribe  of  satyrs,"  "  adoring  Blackwood  as  some  Indian  tribes  do 
the  devil !  " 

It  soon  became  more  than  a  suspicion  that  Wilson,  if  not  the  editor,  was,  at  all 
events,  a  principal  contributor.  He  was  like  an  athlete  in  the  arena,  dashing  at  a 
score  at  once  ;  striking  now  here,  now  there  ;  wounding  alike  friends  and  foes ; 
heedless  where  he  struck,  or  who  fell  beneath  his  blows  ;  while  "  even  in  his  fiercest 
moods  he  was  alive  to  pity,  tenderness,  and  humour,"  and  would  have  been  the  first 


to  heal  the  wounds  he  inflicted.  The  magazine  prospered,  and  has  ever  since  main- 
tained its  high  repute.  It  was  famous,  and  it  v^as  feared,  and  Wilson  was  assailed — 
not  without  show  of  reason — as  a  reprobate  and  a  moral  assassin. 

It  is  known  that  one  of  Wilson's  closest  allies  in  the  conduct  of  Blackwood 
was  John  Gibson  Lockhakt,  the  son-in-law  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  the  successor  of 
Gifford  in  the  editorship  of  the  Quarterly  Review.  The  personal  appearance  of  Lock- 
hart  was  familiar  to  all  habitues  of  society  reception-rooms  in  London.  Neither  in 
aspect  nor  manner,  in  mind  nor  in  character,  had  he  aught  of  the  genial  nature,  the 
utter  unselfishness,  the  large  and  universal  sympathy,  of  his  friend  Wilson.  Indeed, 
it  would  have  been  difficult  to  find  two  men  so  utterly  dissimilar. 

This  is  the  portrait  of  Lockhart  in  Mrs.  Gordon's  Life  of  her  father.  Professor 
Wilson: — "His  pale  olive  complexion  had  something  of  a  Spanish  character  in  it 
that  accorded  well  with  the  sombre,  or  rather,  melancholy,  expression  of  his  coun- 
tenance ;  his  thin  lips,  compressed  beneath  a  smile  of  habitual  sarcasm,  promised  no 
genial  reponse  to  the  warmer  emotions  of  the  heart :  cold,  haughty,  supercihous  in 
manner,  he  seldom  won  love."  He  is  described  by  other  authorities  as  "  systematic, 
cool,  and  circumspect :"  "  when  he  armed  himself  for  conflict  it  was  with  a  fell  and 
deadly  determination:"  "no  thrill  of  compassion  ever  held  back  his  hand  when  he 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  strike."  In  Edinburgh  he  received  the  cognomen  of  "  the 
Scorpion."  His  friend  Wilson— through  the  mouth  of  the  Ettrick  Shepherd— described 
him  "wi'  a  pale  face,  and  a  black  toozy  head,  but  an  e'e  like  an  eagle's,  and  a  sort 
o'  lauch  about  the  screwed-up  mouth  o'  him  that  fules  ca'ed  no  canny,  for  they 
couldna  thole  the  meaning  o't."  In  "  Peter's  Letters"  he  thus  pictures  himself: — 
"  His  features  are  regular  and  quite  definite  in  their  outline  :  his  forehead  is  well 
advanced,  and  largest  in  the  region  of  observation  and  perception."  He  protests 
against  its  being  supposed  that  his  play  of  "  fancy  is  to  gratify  a  sardonic  bitterness, 
or  to  nourish  a  sour  and  atrabilious  spirit."  He  was  young  then,  and  hoping  to  find 
there  were  better  things  in  hterature  than  satire.  He  did  not  find  it,  because  he  did 
not  seek  for  it. 

Certainly  he  was  a  strikingly  handsome  man  :  tall  and  slight,  with  abundant  dark 
hair  on  a  head  well  set  on  his  shoulders,  and  with  features  "  finely  cut ; "  but  on  his 
face  there  was  a  perpetual  sneer,  as  if  he  grudged  humanity  a  virtue.* 

Blackwood,  the  eminent  bibliopole,  so  often  the  mark  of  assailants  as  merciless 
as  were  those  who  upheld  him,  Wilson  describes  as  "a  perfectly  honourable  and 
honest  man."  I  saw  him  often  during  his  brief  visits  to  London,  and  once  in  his 
shop  in  Edinburgh.  We  were  invited  to  his  house — an  invitation  circumstances 
compelled  us  to  postpone  ;  and  on  a  subsequent  visit  to  Edinburgh  he  had  been 
removed  from  earth.  He  was  a  plain  man,  somewhat  burly  of  form  ;  of  his  shrewd 
intelligence  there  can  be  no  doubt ;  he  did  not  convey  the  idea  of  an  intellectual 


*  Lockhart  died  at  Abbotsford  on  the  25th  of  November,  1854,  a  few  months  only  after  his  friend  Wilson ;  he 
is  buried  ia  Dryburgh  Abbey,  "  at  the  feet  of  his  great  father-in-law."  He  was  born  in  the  Manse  of  Cambusnethan, 
on  the  14th  of  July,  1794— his  father  being  minister  of  the  parish — and  married,  in  1820,  Sophia,  the  daughter  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott  'By  her  he  had  a  son  and  a  daughter.  The  son  died  young ;  and  so  perished  the  Mneal  repre- 
sentatives of  the  great  Scottish  bard.  The  daughter  married  Mr.  Hope,  who  took  the  name  of  Scott ;  and,  happily, 
there  are  children  of  that  marriage. 


man  ;  neither,  I  believe,  did  he  ever  assume  to  be  one.  But  he  was  a  man  of 
strong  will;  he  did  not  hesitate  to  "cut  down"  even  the  papers  of  Wilson,  and 
was  the  only"  real  editor"  of  the  magazine  in  the  day  of  its  strength.  He  died  in 
September,  1854,  esteemed,  respected,  and  beloved  by  those  who  knew  him  best,  and 
by  none  more  than  his  constant  ally  and  perpetual  trust,  Professor  Wilson. 

In  1820  John  Wilson  obtained  the  chair  of  Moral  Philosophy  in  the  University  of 
Edinburgh,  and  was  thenceforth  known  as  "  Professor  Wilson  ;  "  not,  as  was  to 
have  been  expected,  without  strenuous  opposition.  His  enemies  (and  he  had  earned 
them)  attacked  the  moral  character  of  the  candidate  for  the  chair  of  Moral  Philo- 
sophy, but  in  that  they  failed  ;  there  he  was,  as  Mrs.  Grant,  of  Laggan,  wrote, 
"  invulnerable."  He  had  twenty-one  votes  out  of  thirty,  notwithstanding  all  the 
efforts  of  political  and  personal  foes. 

Thenceforward  he  gave  free  vent  to  the  more  loveable  qualities  of  his  nature,  the 
outpourings  of  his  generous  soul,  his  earnest  sympathy  with  the  young  whom  it 
became  his  duty  to  arm  for  the  battle  of  life.  One  of  his  pupils  describes  "  his  grand 
and  noble  form  excited  into  bold  and  passionate  action  ;  his  manly  and  eloquent 
voice  sounding  forth  its  stirring  utterances  with  all  the  strange  and  fitful  cadence 
of  a  music  quite  peculiar  to  itself" — "  with  eye,  hand,  voice,  and  soul,  bearing  his 
audience  with  him."  Thus  writes  another: — "The  tremulous  upper  lip,  curving 
with  every  wave  of  thought  or  hint  of  passion,  and  the  golden-grey  hair  floating  on 
the  old  man's  mighty  shoulders — if,  indeed,  that  could  be  called  age  which  seemed 
but  the  immortality  of  a  more  majestic  youth." 

In  after  years  his  writings  were  chiefly  limited  to  his  contributions  to  Blackwood. 
"He  became,"  writes  his  daughter,  in  her  most  pious  and  most  beautiful  "Life," 
"  identified  with  its  character,  its  aims,  and  its  interests."  And  in  1823  he  was  in 
a  position  again  to  reside  at  EUeray ;  to  enjoy  again  its  woods  and  walks,  "  his  idle 
time  not  idly  spent "  beside  the  banks  of  the  lake,  rod  in  hand ;  to  look  upon  the 
hills  he  loved ;  to  see  the  snow  in  summer  on  the  mountain-tops.  Here  he  had 
passed  his  joyous  and  energetic  youth,  when  animal  strength  and  animal  spirits  were 
"over-boiling,"  so  to  speak;  and  thither,  when  advancing  age  had  matured  his 
judgment  and  subdued  his  passions,  when — 

"Consideration,  like  an  angel,  came, 
And  wliipped  the  offending  Adam  out  of  Mm  " — 

he  went,  with  as  full  a  love  of  Nature  as  ever,  to  enjoy  the  abundant  gifts  of  which 
she  is  so  lavish  in  that  most  lovely  locality. 

In  1837  his  beloved  wife  died,  "leaving  the  world  thenceforward  to  him  dark 
and  dreary."  Cannot  we  hear  his  voice  "  tremulous  with  emotion,"  as  he  met  his 
class,  "  with  a  depressed  and  solemn  spirit,"  murmuring,  "  Pardon  me,  but  since 
we  last  met  I  have  been  in  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death."  And  he  wore 
"  weepers" — badges  of  mourning — on  his  sleeves  until  he  received  his  own  summons 
to  join  her.* 

*  Sir  Walter  Scott,  speaking'  of  Mrs.  Wilson,  says—"  One  whose  grace  and  gentle  goodness  cotdd  have  found  no 
fitter  home  than  EUeray — except  where  she  now  is." 


One  event  connected  with  this  period  of  his  life  is  especially  remembered  at  "  the 
Lakes."  In  1825,  George  Canning,  writing  to  Scott,  hopes  he  will  join  a  party  on 
the  banks  of  Windermere  (where  he  was  visiting  Mr.  Bolton,  at  Storr's  Hall),*  and 
he  adds,  "  Our  friend  the  Professor  (who  is  Admiral  of  the  Lakes)  will  fit  out  his 
whole  flotilla  and  fire  all  his  guns  in  honour  of  your  arrival."  Scott  went,  and 
Wordsworth  was  of  the  party.  The  weather  was  brilliant ;  so  was  the  company, 
especially  by  moonlight.  Fifty  barges,  gay  with  banners  and  fair  ladies,  formed  the 
cortege ;  music  and  merry  songs  came  from  each  one  of  them,  as  the  flotilla  made  its 
way  among  the  islands  ;  while  the  shores  were  lined  with  enthusiastic  spectators, 
whose  perpetual  cheers  were  echoed  by  the  mountains. 

That  grand  event  occurred  in  August,  1825  ;  a  record  of  it  will  be  found  in  the 
Memoirs  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  in  those  of  Wordsworth.! 

So  late  as  1848  Wilson  was  at  Elleray ;  but  it  had  lost  its  charm — the  beloved  of 
his  heart  had  been  called  to  a  better  home  ;  he  complained  of  "  its  silence  and  lone- 
liness," and  did  not  remain  there  long  before  he  quitted  it  for  ever.  In  1850  he  was 
"  breaking  up  ;  "  strength  was  gradually  decaying  ;  I  he  grew  meditative  and  solemp. 
Occasionally  there  were  glimpses  of  bis  old  self,  when  he  "  strolled  "  beside  the  banks 
of  Dochart,  rod  in  hand  (the  use  of  one  hand  had  gone),  and  rejoiced  to  see  it  had 
not  quite  lost  its  cunning,  as  he  transferred  to  his  basket  the  trout  from  the  stream. 

His  work  was  drawing  to  a  close  ;  he  resigned  the  chair  of  Moral  Philosophy, 
and  prepared  for  the  coming  change  ;  "  the  head  grew  sick,  and  the  heart  faint ;  "  he 
remained  altogether  "within  doors  ;"  "  something  of  a  settled  melancholy  rested  on 
'his  spirit;"  he  seldom  spoke,  and  did  not  often  smile.  Fully  conscious  of  his 
altered  state,  "  my  mind  is  going — I  feel  it,"  he  sadly  said. 

Now  and  then  he  rallied,  "  presenting  a  serene  and  beautiful  picture  of  calm  and 
genial  old  age."  There  were  yet  thoughts  for  his  duties,  and  one  of  his  latest  labours 
— when  he  moved  with  difiiculty,  when  his  feet  were  feeble  and  unsteady,  and  the 
foreshadow  of  death  was  over  him— was  to  drive  into  Edinburgh  to  give  his  vote 
for  Thomas  Babington  Macaul^y,  then  a  candidate  for  the  representation  of  the  city 
— a  Whig — a  political  opponent  all  his  life. 

But  as  his  good  and  devoted  daughter,  his  biographer,  wz-ites, — "  He  humbly 
looked  in  the  coming  days  of  darkness  for  the  light  that  rises  to  the  upright,  and 
hopefully  awaited  the  sunimons  thfj,t  should  call  him  to  rest  from  his  labours,  and 
enter  into  the  joy  of  his  Lord." 

The  final  summons  did  not  find  him  reluctant  to  obey  it.  His  fishing  tackle  lay 
scattered  near  him,  and  it  pleased  him  to  arrange  his  flies  ;  but  his  Bible  was  ever  at 
his  bedside,  and  was  read  to  him,  morning  and  evening,  when  he  was  no  longer  able 
to  read  it  himself. 

•  Mr.  Bolton  was  an  estimable  and  miioh-respeoted  merchant  of  Liverpool :  he  had  commanded  one  of  the 
regiments  of  volunteers,  and  was  usually  called  Colonel  Bolton. 

+  To  this  memorable  scene  Wilson  makes  but  little  reference  ;  yet  it  might  have  moved  his  pen.  He  afterwai'ds, 
however,  referred  to  Wordsworth  there  : — "The  memory  of  that  bright  day  returns,  when  Windermere  glittered 
with  all  her  sails  in  honour  of  the  great  northern  minstrel,  and  of  him,  the  eloquent,  whose  lips  are  now  mute  in 
dust.     Methinks  we  see  his  smile  benign,  that  we  hear  his  voice,  silver  sweet." 

}  Just  then  he  received  a  pension  from  the  Crown  of  £300  a  year,  an  intimation  to  tint  effect  having  been 
conveyed  to  him  by  Lord  John  Russell,  the  noble  lord  expressing  a  desire  that  the  intelligence  might  be  communi 
cated  to  him  "in  such  a  manner  as  may  be  most  agreeable  to  his  feelings." 


JOHN   WILSON. 


335 


It  came  at  length — it  came  at  midnight,  just  as  a  Sabbath-day  had  passed.  Just 
as  the  clock  struck  twelve  the  mighty  heart  was  still,  as  if  in  answer  to  his  prayer 
uttered  long  years  before — ■ 

"  "When  nature  feels  the  solemn  hour  has  come 

That  parts  the  spirit  from  its  mortal  clay, 

May  that  hour  find  me  in  my  weeping  home, 

'Mid  the  blest  stUlness  of  a  Sabbath  day ! 

May  none  I  deeply  love  be  then  away !  " 

He  died  at  No.  6,  Gloucester  Place,  Edinburgh,  the  house  in  which  he  had  long 
dwelt,  on  the  3rd  of  April,  1854. 


THE   GEAVE   OF   WILSON. 


On  the  7th  of  April  he  was  interred  in  the  "  Dean  Cemetery,"  at  Edinburgh  ; 
perhaps  the  most  beautiful  (the  word  is  not  out  of  place)  graveyard  in  the  kingdom  : 
it  is  richly  planted  with  various  trees,  and,  at  all  seasons,  is  full  of  flowers.  The 
graves  are  carefully  and  neatly  kept :  no  weed  is  suffered  to  grow  there,  although 
wild  flowers  are  not  excluded  from  associations  with  the  dead.  To  tbose  who  can 
recall  the  old  graveyards  that  environed  our  churches— they  were  nowhere  else — 
these  modern  improvements  are  sources  of  no  common  gratification.     I  remember, 


336 


MEMORIES. 


some  thirty-five  years  ago,  when  the  subject  was  first  broached  by  a  Mr.  Garden,  and 
I  had  the  satisfaction  earnestly  to  advocate  the  movement  (in  the  Morning  Journal, 
of  which  I  was  for  a  time  the  editor),  it  encountered  bitter  hostility,  as  a  movement 
that  was  hostile  to  the  well-being  of  society,  fatal  to  the  interests  of  the  Church,  and, 
indeed,  contre  la  nature.  At  that  time  Pere-la-Chaise  was  the  only  burial-ground  in 
Europe  that  invited  lovers  of  the  picturesque ;  and  no  visitor  to  Paris  ever  left  it 
without  seeing  that — its  leading  attraction.     Yet  to  induce  imitators  in  England  was, 


1 


THE   MONUMENT  OP  WILSON. 


for  a  long  while,  uphill  work  ;  those  who  advocated  the  innovation  were  condemned 
as  not  only  un-English,  but  anti-Christian. 

If  in  England  the  feeling  was  strong,  we  may  imagine  it  must  have  been  even 
stronger  in  Scotland,  where  "  time-honoured "  prejudices  have  ever  taken  deeper 
root.  It  is,  however,  one  of  the  departures  from  rules  of  the  "  good  old  times"  on 
which  society  has  to  be  congratulated. 

But  his  fellow-countrymen  raised  a  monument  to  his  memory  ;  I  give  an  engraving 
of  it.  It  was  erected  by  public  subscription  ;  and  the  statue,  in  bronze,  ten  feet 
high,  is  the  work  of  Mr.  John  Steel,  K.S.A.     It  is  thus  described  by  the  pen  of  a 


SIJ?    WJLTER   SCOTT.  337 


loving  friend  : — "  The  careless  ease  of  Professor  Wilson's  ordinary  dress  is  adopted, 
■with  scarcely  a  touch  of  artistic  license,  in  the  statue  ;  a  plaid,  which  he  was  in  the 
frequent  habit  of  wearing,  supplies  the  needful  folds  of  drapery,  and  the  trunk  of  a 
palm-tree  gives  a  rest  to  the  figure,  while  it  indicates,  commemoratively,  his  principal 
poetical  work.  The  lion-like  head  and  face,  full  of  mental  and  muscular  power, 
thrown  slightly  upward  and  backward,  express  fervid  and  impulsive  genius  evolving 
itself  in  free  and  fruitful  thought,  the  glow  of  poetical  inspiration  animating  every 
feature.  The  figure  tall,  massive,  athletic ;  the  hands — the  right  grasping  a  pen,  at 
the  same  time  clutching  the  plaid  that  hangs  across  the  chest,  the  left  resting  negli- 
gently on  the  leaves  of  a  half-open  manuscript ;  the  limbs  loosely  planted,  yet  firm  and 
vigorous — all  correspond  with  the  grandly-elevated  expression  of  the  countenance." 
This  description  brings  the  man  vividly  before  us.  The  statue  stands  in  one  of  the 
great  thoroughfares — in  Princes  Street — and  adjoins  the  "  Institution  "  in  the  city  of 
Edinburgh. 

But  the  best  monument  to  the  memory  of  Professor  Wilson  are  the  two  volumes 
of  Memoirs  written  and  compiled  by  his  daughter,  Mrs.  Gordon.  They  are  charming 
records  of  his  active,  energetic,  busy,  and  useful  life,  written  in  a  spirit  of  devoted 
affection  and  genuine  piety.  That  is  not  strange,  for  if  he  was  loved  almost  to  adora- 
tion by  those  who  knew  him  only  afar  off",  intense  must  have  been  the  feeling  with 
which  he  was  regarded  by  those  who  were  of  his  household,  and  who  were  portions 
of  his  great  heart. 


SIE  WALTEK   SCOTT. 


Of  Sir  Walter  Scott  I  knew  so  little  that  I  am  barely  justified  in  introducing  him 
into  these  "  Memories."  I  saw  him  but  twice  :  first  in  1827  or  1828,  at  an  exhibi- 
tion of  Hay  don's  pictures,  and  I  was  then  and  there  introduced  to  the  "  great 
unknown  ; "  for  such,  at  that  time,  he  in  one  sense  was.  I  had  previously  corre- 
sponded with  him,  however ;  and  he  did  not  consider  me  altogether  a  stranger.  I 
seem  at  this  moment  to  feel  the  cordial  pressure  of  the  hand  he  gave  me,  and  to 
hear  his  words  of  gracious  recognition.  Scott  was  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Lockhart, 
his  son-in-law,  of  whom  I  have  spoken  in  the  Memory  of  Wilson. 

Scott  was  then  at  the  summit  of  fame  :  subsequently  it  was  a  downward  path. 
His  name  was  known  throughout  the  world :  his  books  were  read  in  every  language 
of  civilised  man  :  the  mask  had  been  removed  ;  for  the  secret  of  the  great  magician 
was  divulged  by  a  calamity  that  compelled  him  to  work  in  harness  till  he  died  :  over- 
tasked, over-worked,  the  brain  gave  way  !  It  is  a  sad  picture — that  which  has  been 
presented  to  us — of  broken  spirits,  disappointed  hopes,  vain  ambition,  mental  and 
constitutional  sufferings— all  his  gatherings  from  life  before  he  rested  in  his  grave. 

Every  incident  of  his  Hterary  career  is  known :  his  marvellous  industry,  his 
intense  application,  his  continual  study,  his  labour  at  dry  technical  pursuits,  his 
simple   habits,   his  rigid  morality,   his    avoidance  of   all    unhealthy  excitements — 


338  MEMORIES. 


1 


these  are  the  keys,  no  less  than  his  vast  and  comprehensive  genius,  to  the  success  he 
achieved,  when  volume  after  volume  issued  from  the  press  ;  so  that  between  the 
year  1802,  when  his  first  book  was  printed,  and  the  year  1830,  when  his  last 
appeared,  he  had  actually  written  almost  as  many  volumes  as  there  were  months  in 
all  these  years. 

The  person  of  Scott  has  been  so  frequently  described  as  to  be  almost  as  familiar 
as  his  novels  or  his  poems. 

The  other  occasion  on  which  I  saw  "the  great  magician  "  was  at  the  house  of 
Allan  Cunningham, 

I  can  readily  recall  the  robust  and  hearty  frame  of  the  man ;  his  lofty  forehead, 
broad  too,  but  losing  its  breadth  in  its  remarkable  height ;  his  keen  yet  kindly  grey 
eyes ;  and  his  firm  yet  pleasant  mouth,  easy  to  smile,  yet  evidencing  indomitable 
will.  He  disappointed  no  one ;  his  manner  was  peculiarly  gracious ;  the  very 
humblest  of  his  fellow  labourers  was  at  ease  with  him  at  once ;  it  was  kindness  with- 
out the  weight  of  condescension,  and  counsel  without  the  burden  of  advice.  No  man 
better  understood  that  maxim  of  Lord  Shaftesbury,  "  Politeness  is  benevolence  in 
trifles."  All  who  had  intercourse  with  him,  either  personally  or  by  letter,  mingled 
regard  with  respect,  and  affection  with  veneration.* 

What  a  debt  is  owing  to  him  by  mankind !  a  debt  that  will  accumulate  as  gene- 
rations after  generations  yet  to  come,  profit  by  his  superhuman  labours- — creations  of 
genius  that  teach  and  inculcate  chivalric  honour,  homely  virtue,  and  eternal  truth — 

"  Clothing  the  palpable  and  the  familiar, 
In  golden  exhalations  of  the  dawn." 


FRANCIS   JEFEEEY. 


There  was  another  "  man  of  mark  "  of  whom  I  knew  but  little,  meeting  him,  indeed, 
only  in  general  society.  The  far-famed  editor  of  the  'Edinburgh  Review  had  a  few 
friends — firm  and  staunch  and  loving  friends — and  very  many  foes.  Some  of  them 
he  wilfully  and  wantonly  made  so  ;  others  he  did  not  understand,  and  therefore  mis- 
represented ;  others  he  rightly  and  conscientiously  condemned,  and  roused  into  bitter 
and  irrational  hostility. 

There  are  several  word-portraits  of  him  ;  I  will  endeavour  to  bring  them  together. 
I  find  the  best  of  them  in  the  New  Monthly  Magazine  in  1831,  during  my  editorship, 
but  I  cannot  say  who  gave  it. 

"  He  is  of  low  stature,  but  his  figure  is  elegant  and  well  proportioned.  The  face 
is  rather  elongated,  the  chin  deficient,  the  mouth  well  formed,  with  a  mingled  expres- 
sion of  determination,  sentiment,  and  arch  mockery  ;  the  nose  is  slightly  curved  ;  the 
eye  is  the  most  peculiar  feature  of  the  countenance  :  it  is  large  and  sparkling.  He 
has  two  tones  in  his  voice — the  one  harsh  and  grating,  the  other  rich   and  clear." 

*  It  was  a  poor  tailor  who  hit  his  character  best  :— "  Sir  Walter  speaks  to  every  man  as  if  he  were  his  blood 
relation." 


FRANCIS  JEFFREY.  339 


Lockhart  thus  pictured  him  in  "  Peter's  Letters  :  " — "  Jeffrey  is  a  very  short  and 
very  active-looking  man,  with  an  appearance  of  extraordinary  vivacity  in  all  his 
motions  and  gestures  ;"  his  hair  thick  and  M^iry,  lips  firm,  "but  they  tremble  and 
vibrate,  even  when  brought  close  together,  in  such  a  way  as  to  give  the  idea  of  an 
intense  never-ceasing  play  of  mind ;  there  is  a  delicate  kind  of  sneer  always  upon 
them."  He  adds,  "  What  speaking  things  are  his  eyes  !  "  "  When  troubled,  how 
they  beam,  flash  upon  flash  !  "  Jeffrey — whom  his  biographer,  Lord  Cockburn, 
styles  "  the  greatest  of  British  critics  " — was  born  in  Edinburgh,  1773.  Although 
subsequently  a  Scottish  judge  and  a  member  of  Parliament,  the  world  chiefly  knows 
him  as  the  editor  of  the  Edinhwgh  Review.  Sydney  Smith's  account  of  its  origin  is 
this  : — "  One  day  we  happened  to  meet  in  the  eighth  or  ninth  story  or  flat  in 
Buccleuch  Place,  the  elevated  residence  of  the  then  Mr.  Jeft'rey.  I  proposed  that  we 
should  set  up  a  review  ;  this  was  acceeded  to  with  acclamation.  I  was  appointed 
editor,  and  remained  long  enough  in  Edinburgh  to  edit  the  first  number  of  the  Edin- 
burgh Revieiv."  The  first  number  was  pubHshed  in  October,  1802;  the  second 
number  was  edited  by  Jeffrey  in  1803,  and  from  that  year  to  the  year  1829  he  was 
its  sole  directing  power. 

His  eloquence  as  a  pleader  is  spoken  of  by  many.  Lockhart  wrote  of  "  the  princely 
profusion  "  of  his  language  that  springs  from  an  indefatigable  intellect ;  and  Lord 
Cockburn  tells  us  his  talk  was  "copious  and  sparkling,"  and  that  his  words  "  often 
imparted  nearly  as  much  pleasure  as  the  merry  or  the  tender  wisdom  they  con- 
veyed." 

He  was  not  successful  as  a  member  of  the  House  of  Commons  :  "he  was,"  as  he 
himself  says,  "  too  old  to  be  transplanted." 

He  died  on  the  26th  of  January,  1850,  in  the  seventy-seventh  year  of  his  age. 
No  doubt  he  was  a  bitter,  caustic,  and  often  unjust  critic  ;  and  during  his  long 
career  of  power  there  were  not  many  cases  wherein  he  exhibited  generosity  and  con- 
sideration, or  that  far-seeing  intehigence  which  can  anticipate  and  augur  good  as 
well  as  bad  in  the  authors  tried  at  his  tribunal. 

But  he  lived  to  see  "  the  error  of  his  ways,"  and  to  repent  him  of  the  evil ;  to 
see  many  to  whom  he  had  given  heart-aches,  and  in  whose  pathways  to  distinction 
he  had  put  "filthy  pebbles,"  become  honoured  and  renowned,  if  not,  in  the  widest 
sense,  popular. 

For  years  he  had  laboured  to  make  Southey,  Coleridge,  and  Wordsworth — 
immortal  three — mere  "  laughing-stocks."  To  his  prophecies  concerning  James 
Montgomery  I  have  made  reference.  There  are  many  others  whose  youth  in  author- 
ship he  strove  to  blight ;  and,  no  doubt,  some  he  did  blight  effectually. 

And  Moore  writes— paying  at  once  a  tribute  to  the  head  and  the  heart  of  the  critic 
—"In  the  most  formidable  of  all  my  censors,  the  great  master  of  criticism  in  our  day, 
I  have  since  found  one  of  the  most  cordial  of  all  my  friends." 

Yet— and  let  it  be  recorded  to  his  honour,  for  we  little  know  the  secret  springs  of 
sympathy,  feeling,  and  goodness  that  often  run  into  the  turbid  river  of  life — he 
acknowledged  that  he  found  himself  "  crying  and  sobbing  "  over  the  fictitious  death- 
bed of  Little  Dombey  ! 

z  2 


1 


GEOEGE   CEABBE. 

EABBE  was  born  at  Aldborough,  in  Suffolk,  in  a  small  and 

rude  cottage,  now  removed,  the  "portraiture  "  of  which  has 

been  preserved  by  the  painter  Stanfield.     His  father  was  a 

man  of  humble  means  and  position.     He  gave,  however,  to 

his  eldest  son  the  best  teaching  he  could  ;  but  G-eorge  was, 

"in  a  great  measure,  self-educated;"  yet  the  ground  must 

have  been  well  laid,  for  in  later  days  he  was  no  mean  scholar. 

He  was  born  on  the  Christmas-eve  of  the  year  1754  ;  and, 

when  little  more  than  a  child,  had  made  essays  in  verse.    He 

was  apprenticed  to  a  village  surgeon,  but  learned  little  and  knew  little. 

When  "  out  of  his  time  "  he  "set  up  for  himself"  at  Aldborough.     Of 

this  uncongenial  and  ill-rewarded  employment  he  soon  wearied  ;  and  in 

1780 — "  with  the  best  verses  he  could  write,"  and  a  borrowed  £3  in  money 

— he  set  forth  to  seek  his  fortune  in  London. 

Thus  writes  the  Laureate  Southey  in  reference  to  a  case  somewhat 
analogous  : — 

"  "Woe  be  to  the  youthful  poet  who  sets  out  upon  his  pilgrimage  to  the  Temple  of  Fame  with 
nothing  but  Hope  for  his  viaticum  !  There  are  the  Slough  of  Despond,  and  the  HiU  of  Difficulty, 
and  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death  upon  the  way !  " 

Partly  from  the  statements  of  his  son,  and  partly  from  a  journal  kept  by  himself, 
we  learn  much  of  the  terrible  struggle-  that  followed  the  advent  of  Crabbe  in  the 
metropolis.  His  "wealth"  gradually  dinainished  ;  went  down  to  shillings,  and  then 
to  pence;  nay,  once,  on  taking  stock,  he  found  "  sixpence  farthing"  in  his  purse, 
and  reduced  it  to  fourpence  halfpenny  by  expending  seven  farthings  in  the  purchase 
of  a  pint  of  porter.  The  pawnbroker  gave  temporary  relief.  At  length  he  had  accu- 
mulated a  debt  of  £7 ;  and  the  gates  of  a  gaol  were  about  to  open  to  the  heir  of  Par- 
nassus. Here,  there,  and  everywhere,  he  had  sought  a  publisher  in  vain  :  as  futile 
were  his  efforts  to  find  a  patron  !  Lord  North  was  deaf ;  Lord  Shelburne  silent ; 
Lord  Chancellor  Thurlow  had  "  no  leisure  to  read  verses  ; "  a  poetical  appeal  to 
Prince  William  Henry — then  a  young  sailor,  afterwards  King  William  IV. — produced 
no  response. 

Here  he  was,  in  the  "  peopled  solitude,"  without  a  friend,  without  a  shilling, 
without  a  hope  :  nay,  not  so,  for  trust  in  God  never  left  him.  And  there  was  a 
dearly-loved  girl  (afterwards  his  loving  and  devoted  wife)  praying  for  him  in  the 
humble  home  he  had  left.     But  his  sufferings  of  mind  and  body  were  intense :  once 


GEORGE   CRAB  BE. 


341 


when  he  had  wandered  away  to  Hornsey  Wood  (the  locality  he  most  frequented), 
and  found  it  too  late  to  return  to  his  lodging,  he  passed  the  night  under  a  hayrick — 
having  no  money  to  pay  for  a  casual  bed.  What  was  he  to  do  ?  The  natural  holi- 
ness of  his  mind  kept  him  from  following  the  example  of  that  "  marvellous  boy" 
who,  but  a  few  months  gone,  had  "perished  in  his  pride  "  in  the  wretched  attic  of 
Shoe  Lane.  What  was  he  to  do  as  he  wandered  about,  hungry  and  hopeless,  with 
high  aspirations  and  much  self-dependence, — a  full  consciousness  of  the  fount  within, 
that  was  striving  to  send  its  streams  of  living  water  to  mankind, — yet  without  a  hand 
to  sustain  him  across  the  Slough  of  Despond,  or  a  glimpse  of  light  to  guide  him 
through  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death  ? 


THE   CHUBCH  AT  TBOWBKIDGE. 


Yes,  his  lot  has  been  the  lot  of  many  to  whom  "  letters  "  is  a  sole  "  profession ; " 
but  of  few  may  the  story  be  told  so  succinctly  and  emphatically  as  of  Crabbe ;  for 
but  few  so  thoroughly  or  so  suddenly  triumphed  over  the  enemy,  or  could  look  back 
without  a  blush  upon  the  progress  of  the  fight  when  its  end  was  Victory. 

Who  will  say  that  his  prayers,  and  those  of  his  "  Sarah,"  were  not  heard  and 
answered,  when  an  inspired  thought  suggested  an  appplication  to  Edmund  Burke  ? 
I  copy  a  touching  passage  from  "  The  Life  of  the  Eev.  George  Crabbe,"  by  his  son — 
a  volume  of  rare  interest,  that  renders  full  justice  to  an  illustrious  memory,  but  claims 
for  it  nothing  that  the  present  and  the  future  will  not  readily  give  : — 

*'  He  went  into  Mr.  Burke's  room  a  poor  young  adventurer,  spurned  by  the  opulent 


1 


342 


MEMORIES. 


and  rejected  by  the  publishers,  his  last  shilling  gone,  and  all  but  his  last  hope  with 
it ;  he  came  out  virtually  secure  of  almost  all  the  good  fortune  that  by  successive 
steps  afterwards  fell  to  his  lot ;  his  genius  acknowledged  by  one  whose  verdict  could 
not  be  questioned ;  his  character  and  manners  appreciated  and  approved  by  a  noble 
and  capacious  heart,  whose  benevolence  knew  no  limits  but  its  power." 

Ay,  the  dark  and  turbulent  river  was  crossed,  and  the  celestial  city  was  in  sight. 
The  sad  and  solitary  wanderer  no  longer  walked  London  streets  in  hopeless  misery ; 
no  more  was  the  spirit  to  be  subdued  by  the  sickness  of  hope  deferred  ;  and  who  will 
grudge  him  the  natural  triumph  with  which  he  once  again  entered  his  native  town, 
his  genius  acknowledged,  his  position  secured,  his  lofty  imaginings  converted  into 


V, 


,1^ 


p.  15.'"  #    S    f-tJ^  ■ 


THE   RECTORY   AT  TROWBRIDGE. 


palpable  realities,  the  companion  and  the  friend  of  many  great  men,  whose  renown 
had  reached  even  the  poor  village  of  Aldborough  ? 

It  was  by  the  advice  of  Burke,  responding  to  his  own  thought,  that  he  became  a 
clergyman  ;  and  by  that  great  man's  influence  he  was  ordained  on  the  21st  of 
December,  1781,  his  first  curacy  being  in  his  native  village;  and,  no  doubt,  among 
those  who  heard  his  first  sermon  was  the  "  Sarah  "  who  had  believed  in  him  when 
neighbours  considered  him  a  "lubber"  and  a  "fool,"  or  at  best  a  hare-brained 
youth,  who  "  would  never  come  to  good."  In  1783  they  were  married,  and  went  to 
reside  at  Belvoir  Castle,  the  Duke  of  Rutland  having  made  Crabbe  his  domestic 
chaplain . 

He  who  had  borne  poverty  with  heroism  was  able  to  bear  the  "  straitened  circum- 
stances "  which  he  had  to  endure  for  several  after  years.     There  was  a  sweet  seraph 


GEORGE   CRABBE. 


ZM 


ever  by  his  side  ;  and  "  trust  in  God  "  had  been  strengthened  by  imparting  "  trust " 
to  others. 

In  1815  he  was  inducted  into  the  living  of  Trowbridge,  and  on  the  5th  of  June 
he  preached  his  first  sermon  there.  Here  he  lived  and  worked  till  he  died,  dis- 
charging his  duty  until  within  a  week  of  his  removal  ;  having  been  so  richly  gifted 
with  health  and  strength  that  he  had  not  omitted  the  duty  on  a  Sabbath  once  for 
forty  years — 

"  The  children's  favoiirite  and  the  grandsire'e  friend, 
Tried,  trusted,  and  beloved !  " 


THB  MONUMENT  TO  GEOEGB  CEABBE. 


In  the  autumn  of  1830  the  world  was  closing  over  him.  "Age  had  sadly  bent 
his  once  tall  stature,  and  his  hand  trembled;"  and  on  February  3rd,  1832,  he 
"  died  ;"  almost  his  last  words  to  his  children  being,  "  God  bless  you  !  Be  good, 
and  come  to  me  !  " 

Crabbe  seldom  visited  London  during  the  later  years  of  his  long  life,  and  I  saw 
him  only  in  a  crowd,  where  certainly  he  was  not  "  at  home."  He  was  then  aged,  over 
threescore  and  ten  ;  it  was  impossible,  however,  not  to  be  impressed  by  the  exterior 
of  the  poet,  whom  a  high  contemporary  authority  characterised  as  "  Nature's  sternest 
painter,  yet  her  best." 

Half  a  century  had  passed  between  the  period  when  the  raw  country  youth  sought 
and  obtained  the  friendship  of  Edmund  Burke,  and  the  time  when  I  saw  him,  the 
"  observed  of  all  observers,"  receiving  the  homage  of  intellectual  listeners. 


344  MEMORIES. 


My  visit  was  paid  to  him  at  Hampstead,  where  he  was  the  guest  of  his  friends, 
"  the  Hoares."  It  was  in  the  year  1825  or  1826,  I  do  not  recollect  which.  There 
were  many  persons  present.  Of  the  party  I  can  recall  but  one ;  that  one,  however, 
is  a  Memory — Joanna  Baillie.  I  remember  her  as  singularly  impressive  in  look  and, 
manner,  with  the  "  queenly  "  air  we  associate  with  ideas  of  high  birth  and  lofty  rank. 
Her  face  was  long,  narrow,  dark,  and  solemn,  and  her  speech  deliberate  and  con- 
siderate, the  very  antipodes  of  "  chatter."  Tall  in  person,  and  habited  according  to 
the  "  mode  "  of  an  olden  time,  her  picture,  as  it  is  now  present  to  me,  is  that  of  a  very 
venerable  dame,  dressed  in  coif  and  kirtle,  stepping  out,  as  it  were,  from  a  frame  in 
which  she  had  been  placed  by  the  painter  Vandyke.  Her  popularity  is  derived  from 
her  "  Plays  of  the  Passions,"  only  one  of  which  was  ever  acted — De  Montford — in 
which  John  Kemble,  and  afterwards  Edmund  Kean,  performed  the  leading  part. 
Her  father.  Dr.  Baillie,  must  have  been  a  stern,  ungenial  man,  for  it  is  said  by  Lucy 
Aikin  (on  the  authority  of  her  sister)  that  he  had  never  given  his  daughter  a  kiss,  and 
Joanna  herself  had  spoken  of  her  "  yearning  to  be  caressed  when  a  child."  We 
have  no  difficulty  in  accepting  the  testimony  which  Miss  Aikin  offers  to  the  memory 
of  the  author  of  "  Plays  of  the  Passions  : "— "  If  there  were  ever  a  human  creature 
'  pure  in  the  last  recesses  of  the  soul,'  it  was  surely  this  meek,  this  pious,  this  noble- 
minded,  and  nobly-gifted  woman,  who,  after  attaining  her  nineteenth  year,  carried 
with  her  to  the  grave  the  love,  the  reverence,  the  regrets  of  all  who  had  ever  enjoyed 
the  privilege  of  her  society." 

In  the  appearance  of  Crabbe  there  was  little  of  the  poet,  but  even  less  of  the 
stern  critic  of  mankind,  who  looked  at  nature  askance,  and  ever  contemplated  beauty, 
animate  or  inanimate, — 

"  The  simple  loves  and  simple  joys," — 

"  through  a  glass  darkly."  On  the  contrary,  he  seemed  to  my  eyes  the  represen- 
tative of  the  class  of  rarely  troubled,  and  seldom  thinking,  English  farmers.  A  clear 
grey  eye,  a  ruddy  complexion,  as  if  he  loved  exercise  and  wooed  mountain  breezes, 
were  the  leading  characteristics  of  his  countenance.  It  is  a  picture  of  age,  "  frosty 
but  kindly  " — that  of  a  tall  and  stalwart  man  gradually  grown  old,  to  whom  age  was 
rather  an  ornament  than  a  blemish.  He  was  one  of  those  instances  of  men  plain, 
perhaps,  in  youth,  and  homely  of  countenance  in  manhood,  who  become  absolutely 
handsome  when  white  hairs  have  become  a  crown  of  glory,  and  indulgence  in  excesses 
or  perilous  passions  has  left  no  lines  that  speak  of  remorse,  or  even  of  errors  unatoned. 

This  is  the  portrait  that  Lockhart  draws  of  Crabbe  : — "  His  noble  forehead  his 
bright  beaming  eye,  without  anything  of  old  age  about  it — though  he  was  then  above 
seventy — his  sweet  and,  I  would  say,  innocent  smile,  and  the  calm,  mellow  tones  of 
his  voice,  all  are  reproduced  when  I  open  a  page  of  his  poetry." 

Certain  it  is  that  the  Crabbe  who  wrote  "  The  Village  "  and  "  Tales  of  the  Hall," 
who  seemed  to  have  neither  eye  nor  ear  for  the  pure  and  graceful,  whose  spring  wore 
the  garb  of  autumn,  to  whom  even  the  breeze  was  unmusical,  and  the  zephyr  harsh, 
whose  hill,  and  stream,  and  valley  were  barren,  muddy,  and  unprofitable,  was  only 
misanthropic  in  verse.     In  his  life  and  practice  he  was  amiable,  benevolent,  and  con- 


GEORGE   CRABBE.  345 


ciliatory.  We  have  other  authority  besides  that  of  his  son  and  biographer  for  beheving 
that  "  to  him  it  was  recommendation  enough  to  be  poor  and  miserable  ; "  that  as  a 
country  clergyman — 

"To  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  care." 

This  is  the  tribute  of  his  friend,  the  poet  Moore  : — "  The  musa  severior  which  he 
worships  has  had  no  influence  whatever  on  the  kindly  dispositions  of  his  heart  ;  but 
while  with  the  eye  of  a  sage  and  a  poet  he  looks  into  the  darker  region  of  human 
nature,  he  stands  in  the  most  genial  sunshine  himself." 

This  is  the  inscription  on  the  monument  (by  the  sculptor  Baily)  to  his  memory  in 
the  church  at  Trowbridge,  of  which  he  was  so  long  the  rector  : — 

SACKED 

TO   THE   MEMORY   OP 

THE  EEV.  a  CEABBE,  LL.B., 

Who  died  on  the  3rd  of  February,  1832,  in  the  78th  year  of 

his  Age,  and  the  18th  of  his  services  as 

Eector  of  this  Parish. 

Born  in  humble  life,  he  made  himself  what  he  was  ; 

Breaking  through  the  obscurity  of  his  birth  by  the  force  of 

his  genius. 

Yet  he  never  ceased  to  feel  for  the  less  fortunate  ; 

Entering,  as  his  works  can  testify,  into  the  sorrows  and 

wani  s  of  the  poorest  of  his  parishioners, 

And  so  discharging  the  duties  of  a  pastor  and  a  magistrate 

As  to  endear  himself  to  all  around  him. 

As  a  writer  he  cannot  be  better  described  than  in  the  words 

of  a  great  poet,  his  contemporary, — 

"  Tho'  Nature's  sternest  painter,  yet  her  best." 


This  monument  was  erected  by  some  of  his  affectionate  friends  and  parishioners. 

I  recall  with  pleasure  a  morning  spent  in  the  Rectory  at  Trowbridge,  and  in 
wandering  among  the  lanes  and  into  the  cottages  where  the  poet  had  trodden  so  often 
— the  bearer  of  peace,  love,  and  hope.  It  is  a  thoroughly  English  town,  very  quiet 
except  on  "  fair  days."  The  character  there  is  so  primitive  that  in  any  part  of  it  the 
poet  might  have  made  a  study.  No  doubt  he  did  often  work  in  thought  among  the 
peasantry  and  people  he  found  about  him,  where  nature  remained,  and  I  imagine 
remains,  but  little  disturbed  by  the  outer  world.  Though  by  no  means  "  a  lodge  in 
a  vast  wilderness  "  for  which  Cowper  longed,  it  seemed  to  me  shut  out  completely 
from  intercourse  with  the  "  busy  throng  " — 

"  The  vain,  the  wealthy,  and  the  proud." 


1 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 

N  the  year  1B30  I  had  the  honour  to  be  associated  with  the  poet, 
Thomas  Campbell,  in  the  editorship  of  the  New  Monthly  Magazine, 
in  the  entire  conduct  of  which  I  was  subsequently  his  successor. 
Although  in  the  prime  of  life,  or  very  little  past  it,  a  heavy  sorrow 
was  over  him.  He  had  not  long  previously  (in  1828)  lost  his  wife, 
and  his  son  (his  only  living  child)  was  confined  in  "  a  private  lunatic 
asylum."  Unhappily  he  sought  relief  where  it  is  the  friend  of  but  a 
brief  and  treacherous  moment,  and  a  habit  was  contracted  which  I 
have  reason  to  believe  never  left  him.  Fortunately  for  mankind,  his 
grand  "  Odes  "  and  "  Lyrics  "  had  been  given  to  the  world  previously  ; 
for  afterwards  his  works  were,  by  comparison,  nothings. 

"  In  whose  sea-odes — as  in  those  shells 
Where  ocean's  voice  of  majesty 
Seems  still  to  sound— immortal  dwells 
Old  Albion's  spirit  of  the  sea." 

Campbell  was  rather  under  than  above  the  middle  size ;  his  voice  was  low  almost 
to  weakness,  and  inharmonious  ;  the  expression  of  his  countenance  indicated  the 
sensitiveness  of  his  mind  ;  his  lips  were  thin  ;  his  nose  finely  and  delicately  chiselled  ; 
his  eyes  large  and  of  a  deep  blue  ;  and  his  manners,  though  without  frankness  and 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL.  347 


lacking  dignity,  were  bland  and  insinuating.  One  of  his  fair  friends  described  the 
poet  as  "  a  little  rosy  man  in  a  bob  wig."  "  His  wig  was  always  nicely  adjusted, 
and  scarcely  distinguishable  from  natural  hair."  He  was  accustomed  to  blacken  his 
whiskers  with  burnt  cork,  or  some  kind  of  powder,  to  make  them  correspond  with 
his  wig.  He  was  cheerful  in  general  society,  agreeable  and  communicative  in  the 
social  circle,  and  his  conversation  abounded  in  pointed  humour.  It  was,  however, 
sometimes  so  irreverent  as  to  make  the  listener  ask  if  he  were  really  the  author  of 
"The  Pleasures  of  Hope;"  and  his  anecdotes  were  not  always  kept  "  within  the 
limits  of  becoming  mirth."  He  seemed,  and  was,  averse  to  exertion,  mental  or  cor- 
poreal ;  and  was  deficient  in  that  energy  which  is  character.  He  laboured  much  at 
what  he  wrote,  poetry  or  prose,  and  I  have  known  him  to  produce  but  a  single  page 
of  prose  as  the  result  of  a  day.  I  remember  once  expressing  my  surprise  at  this,  and 
his  telling  me  he  always  considered  a  verse  as  the  ample  fruitage  of  a  week  ;  for 
although  the  rough  hewing  of  a  block  might  be  the  work  of  an  hour,  the  fashioning 
and  polishing  were  born  of  the  toil  that  brought  reward  ;  while  the  /ore-thought,  as 
compared  with  the  o/fer-thought,  was  as  the  mile  to  the  inch. 

I  was  not  long  his  sub-editor.  My  appointment  to  that  office  was,  I  believe, 
against  his  will ;  for  certainly  he  had  no  desire  to  lose  the  associateship  of  his  old 
and  valuable  ally,  Cyrus  Eedding.  Although  I  had  not  only  nothing  to  complain  of 
in  his  treatment  of  me,  but  the  opposite,  there  may  have  been  that  lack  of  cordiality 
which  prevented  me  from  cherishing  towards  him  the  fervid  homage  I  have  felt  for  so 
many  great  men.  At  least,  after  this  long  lapse  of  time,  I  cannot  say  otherwise 
than  that  my  intimacy  with  the  poet  was  a  dream  dispelled.  I  soon  found  that  the 
less  trouble  I  gave  him  in  reference  to  the  magazine,  the  better  I  should  please  him ; 
no  doubt  my  predecessor  had  acted  on  that  principle ;  but  very  soon  after  my 
accession,  Campbell  was  tempted  into  a  speculation  that  caused  him  much  anxiety 
and  eventual  loss.  He  resigned  the  editorship  of  the  iVeiy  Monthly,  and  became  one 
of  the  proprietors,  as  well  as  the  nominal  editor,  of  the  MetrojmUtan,  and  expended 
fruitlessly  two  or  three  years  of  wearisome  labour.  That  publication  was,  in  due 
course,  abandoned,  and  Campbell  afterwards  led  a  listless,  if  not  a  positively  idle,  life 
until  his  death. 

Dr.  Beattie  thinks  his  resignation  of  the  New  Monthly  was  the  result  of  a  "  vexa- 
tious incident."  There  crept  into  the  magazine  "  a  vile  and  shocking  paper,"  which 
attacked  the  memory  of  his  dear  friend.  Dr.  Glennie,  of  Dulwich ;  it  referred  to  Lord 
Byron's  foot,  and  was  written  by  a  quack.  That  it  grievously  annoyed  Mr.  Camp- 
bell, I  know.  I  was  anxious  not  to  be  held  responsible  for  the  act ;  and  in  one  of 
the  few  letters  I  have  preserved  of  his,  he  fully  acquits  me  of  all  blame.  It  is,  how- 
ever, clear  from  some  of  his  letters  in  1829  that  he  was  then  longing  to  be  "  away 
from  the  thraldom"  to  which  he  was  subjected. 

His  partners  in  the  Metropolitan  were  Captain  Chamier  and  the  publisher 
Cochrane:  he  was  induced  to  become  "  a  proprietor "  in  consequence  of  finding 
himself  "  enormously  "  in  Mr.  Colburn's  debt.  Kogers  lent  him  the  money  to  embark 
in  that  undertaking — a  disastrous  one,  although  the  poet  "  got  out  of  it"  with  com- 
paratively little  loss,  Captain  Chamier  behaving  with  nice  honour  and  generous  con- 


348  MEMORIES. 


^ 


sideration.     Subsequently  the  journal  became  the  property  of  Captain  Marryat,  and 
had  but  a  short  and  unprosperous  life. 

Campbell  had  commenced  his 
duties  as  editor  of  the  New  Monthly 
on  the  1st  of  January,  1821.  It  was 
with  many  misgivings  the  poet  under- 
took the  task,  for  which  he  was  singu- 
larly disqualified.  "  He  was  accus- 
tomed to  make  mountains  of  mole- 
hills;" he  had  no  organ  of  order; 
^  X  ^v  contributions     were     rarely    acknow- 

^  *'^^Nv    V  /      \^  ledged,  and  not   often  read ;    of   the 

"  *s|  'n        ^^^       ^^  capabiHties    of  contemporary   writers 

\^^         N^       "^^         ^^  1^6  "^^s  entirely  ignorant.     He  could 

\^         ^^  ^>  seldom  make   up   his  mind   either  to 

\^        ^  ^        \N^     \   V^  '  accept  or  reject  an  article,  and  fancied 

N  vj  ^     W^"""^  ^^  must  be  held  responsible  not  only 

^  ^\     V  v^       \N      V    n!  for  the  sentiments,  but    for  the  lan- 

.  ^        . '^        V  ,  guage  of  every  contributor.  Especially 

N         ^^  ^  ^6  "^^s  disqualified  for  his  task  by  his 


^ 


^ 


•5:^         ^  ^  ^  extreme  sensitiveness.     He  could  not 

^  N      ^  \j         ^  bear   reproach  or  blame ;    complaint 

more  than  exasperated  him  ;  he  took 
^        >^  .y^        f^  as     a     personal    insult    any    protest 


v^         <^  V"^  ""'''4^S.      \\.t  1       against  his  editorial  fiat.     They  were 

\3!^       .   V  V\  "pestilent  fellows "  who  hurried  him 

O         ^^  M  x*        ^K       ^^^  ^^®  return  of  the  manuscripts  he 


M        ^^  I  vV^        ^        Ov  ^^^  ^^^  know  where  to  find,* 

^  "^  ^  ^>^         ^^       N^  Indecision  was  the  prevailing  vice 

■^  ^  ^        ^^        ^,       of  his  character.     Scott  pictured  him, 

in  1817,  as  "  afraid  of  the  shadow  his 
own    fame    cast   before    him;"    and 


^  JN  "v  *5i  s3.i  Talfourd,  summing  up  his  faults  as  an 


^      ^^  x^         ^         ^^      ^^      editor,  described  him  as  "  stopping  the 

^  )        i  ^        *»       press  for  a  week  to  determine  the  value 

^;^     Cs^^      V(^      V\^  ^        «       °^  ^  comma,  and  balancing  contending 

K^     ^^        C^       V  \      y^        *       epithets  for  a  fortnight."     His  maga- 
VV  ^         Y      ™^^  ^^  himself  called  "  an  olla  podrida 

that  sickens  and  enslaves  me."  f 

*  "  Whatever  article  came  to  him  he  would  put  by,  as  intended  for  future  inspection,  and  think  of  it  no  more. 
....  I  often  found  a  letter  or  an  article  placed  over  his  books  on  the  shelves  unopened— sometimes  slipped  down 
behind  them." — Oyrus  Bedding. 

t  Dr.  Beattie,  in  his  own  gracious  and  generous  manner,  puts  the  point  thus  :— "  His  flow  of  thought  was  not 
rapid  ;  and  the  extreme  fastidiousness  of  his  taste  was  a  constant  embarrassment  to  his  progress.  In  writing,  he 
was  often  like  an  artist  setting  figures  in  mosaic— cautiously  marking  the  weight,  shape,  and  effect  of  each  particular 
piece  before  dropping  it  into  its  place." 


His  £600  per  annum  was  therefore  earned  not  only  by  double  the  amount  of 
needful  labour,  but  by  a  sacrifice  of  peace  of  mind.     In  a  word,  a  worse  editor  could 
not  have  been  selected  ;  yet  the  enterprise  of  the  publisher  Colburn,  and  his  liberal 
scale  of  remuneration,  attracted  many  important  and  valuable  aids,  and  the  magazine 
though  published  at  3s.  6d.  monthly,  was  a  great  success. 

Fortunately,  however,  Campbell  had  associated  with  him  as  sub-editor  a  practical 
and  painstaking  gentleman,  Mr.  Cyrus  Redding,  always  considerate  and  courteous, 
who  kept  contributors  in  good  humour,  and  did  the  "  business  "  part  of  the  magazine 
thoroughly  well.*  It  was  this  gfentleman  I  was  called  upon  to  succeed  (I  do  not 
know,  and  I  believe  I  never  knew,  the  reason  of  the  change).  In  the  year  1830 
Campbell  wa,s  then  either  weary  of,  or  indifferent  to,  his  editorial  duties  •  at  least 
he  left  to  me  the  whole  business  of  selecting  articles.  My  own  experience  certainly 
bears  out  the  picture  drawn  by  Talfourd  of  Campbell  as  an  editor.  "It  was,"  writes 
that  genial  and  indulgent  critic,  "  an  office  for  which  he  was  the  most  unfit  person 
who  could  be  found  in  the  wide  world  of  letters,  who  regarded  a  magazine  as  if  it 
were  a  long  affidavit,  or  a  short  answer  in  Chancery,  in  which  the  absolute  truth  of 
every  sentiment,  and  the  propriety  of  every  jest,  were  verified  by  the  editor's  oath  or 
solemn  affirmation ;  who  stopped  the  press  for  a  week  at  a  comma  ;  balanced  con- 
tending epithets  for  a  fortnight ;  and  at  last  grew  rash  in  despair,  and  tossed  the 
nearest,  and  often  the  worst,  article  '  unwhipped  of  justice  '  to  the  printer." 

Consequently  Campbell  lost  rather  than  gained  in  reputation  as  the  presiding 
power  over  an  important  public  organ  ;  and,  acting  "  like  the  poor  cat  i'  the  adage," 
gave  no  character  to  the  work.f 

His  life  has  been  written  by  one  of  the  best  and  kindliest  of  men — good  Dr. 
William  Beattie,  his  friend  and  physician ;  who  was  guided  by  strong  affection  and 
profound  reverence ;  who  had  watched  him  in  sickness,  solitude,  and  depression  ; 
and  who,  if  he  has  judged  him  more  in  mercy  than  in  justice,  will  be  esteemed  and 
loved  for  the  mind  and  heart  he  gave  to  his  labour  of  love.|  The  excellent  man  is 
now  gone  home  ;  he  died  at  a  good  old  age  ;  all  who  knew  him  loved  him.  I  saw 
him  occasionally  at  his  house  in  Seymour  Street,  London,  where  he  continued  to 
practise  his  profession  up  to  a  late  period,  and  had  frequently  talks  with  him  as  to 
the  great  men  and  women  we  had  known — Campbell  especially.  Dr.  Beattie  was  a 
tall,  handsome  man  ;  his  manners  and  appearance  were  much  in  his  favour.  He  was 
an  author  as  well  as  a  doctor;  his  "  Switzerland,"  associated  with  admirable  engra- 
vings from  drawings  by  the  excellent  artist  Bartlett,  was  one  of  the  pioneers  of  illus- 
trated literature,  and  one  of  the  earliest  issues  of  the  publisher,  Virtue.     It  was  a 


*  Redding  was  a  Comishman,  bom  somewliere  about  the  year  1785,  for  he  imist  have  been  nearly  eighty  years 
old  when  he  died.  Early  in  life  he  had  been  the  iatimate  friend  of  Dr.  Wolcot  ("  Peter  Pindar"),  of  whom  he  told 
many  strange  characteristic  stories.  I  remember  one : — "When  sitting  by  the  old  man's  bedside,  as  he  was  dying, 
he  said,  '  Doctor,  can  I  do  anything  for  you  1 '     '  Yes.'     '  What  ? '     '  Give  me  back  my  youth  ! '  " 

+  Of  his  extreme  carelessness  I  have  a  remarkable  proof  in  one  of  his  letters  I  have  preserved.  Twice  in  that 
letter  he  spells  the  name  of  his  literary  colleague  "  Reading,"  instead  of  "  Redding." 

t  Campbell,  on  appointing,  by  his  will.  Dr.  Beattie  one  of  his  literary  executors,  terms  him  his  "staunch  and 
inestimable  friend,"  and  on  a  long  prior  occasion  thus  greets  him  : — 

"  Friend  of  my  life,  which  did  not  you  prolong, 
The  world  had  wanted  many  an  idle  song." 


3SO  MEMORIES. 


1 


great  success,  giving  fame  to  the  author  and  artist,  and  fortune  to  the  publisher.  So 
also  was  Beattie's  "  Castles  and  Abbeys  of  England,"  reprinted  very  recently. 

Thomas  Campbell,  the  eighth  son  and  eleventh  child  of  his  parents,  was  born  in 
the  High  Street  of  Glasgow,  on  the  27th  of  July,  1777.*  His  father  was  a  Scottish 
gentleman,  though  "  a  decayed  merchant,"  and  was  of  the  proud  blood  of  Argyll. f 
He  began  to  write  verses  early  ;  and  when  a  mere  youth  gave  the  promise  of  after 
greatness.  At  sixteen  years  old  he  produced  poems  so  good  that  it  need  have 
startled  no  one  when,  at  the  age  of  twenty-one  years  and  eleven  months,  he  produced 
"  The  Pleasures  of  Hope." 

That  famous  poem,  one  of  the  classics  of  our  language,  was  written  at  intervals 
(his  vocation  being  then  to  teach  pupils)  during  the  years  1797-8,  and  was  published 
at  Edinburgh  in  1799.  It  took  at  once  the  place  it  has  kept  and  will  keep  as  long  as 
our  language  endures.  It  was  composed  in  "a  dusky  lodging"  in  Rose  Street, 
Edinburgh.  The  copyright  he  sold  to  an  Edinburgh  publisher.  Campbell  tells  us 
it  "  was  sold  out  and  out  for  £60  in  money  and  books  ; "  he  adds  that  "  for  two  or 
three  years  the  publishers  gave  him  £50  on  the  issue  of  every  new  edition.  | 

Professor  Pillans,  in  the  course  of  an  address  at  the  Festival  to  inaugurate  the 
statue  of  James  Hogg,  beside  "  lone  St.  Mary's  silent  lake,"  related  this  interesting 
anecdote  of  Campbell : — 

"  I  knew  him — he  was  a  student  of  Glasgow,  I  of  Edinburgh  ;  and  we  met  about 
the  year  1797,  some  considerable  time  before  the  publication  of  his  immortal  poem, 
'  The  Pleasures  of  Hope.'  He  was  of  so  poetical  a  temperament  that  it  happened  at 
the  time  I  made  his  acquaintance,  and  he  had  been  at  my  father's  house,  he  was  in 
the  lowest  state  of  depression  and  dejection  of  spirits — so  much  so,  that  my  father 
taunted  me  with  bringing  to  his  house  a  man  of  whom  he  would  not  be  surprised  to 
hear  that  he  had  put  an  end  to  his  life  before  morning.  That  was  a  part  of  his 
poetical  temperament.  He  was  always  in  extremes  ;  hence  it  was  that  the  next  time 
I  saw  him  he  was  in  the  highest  spirits,  because  by  that  time  the  book  which  he  held 
in  contempt,  as  you  may  guess  from  his  having  suifered  such  dejection,  was  received 
with  such  universal  encomiums  and  applause,  that  it  raised  him  to  the  third  heaven 
of  exultation.  And  it  was  not  long  after  that  I  met  him  in  London,  when  the  book 
had  gone  through  several  editions,  and  the  last  of  them  contained  a  passage  which 
had  not  appeared  in  the  first  edition  of  the  poem  § — a  passage  which  was  to  me  so 


*  William  Howitt  gives  a  curious  account  of  his  search  for  the  house  in  which  the  poet  was  born.  "  It  stood," 
he  says,  "  at  the  east  end  of  George  Street,  but  has  been  cleared  away."  Inquiries  on  the  subject,  of  neighbours,  led 
to  nothing  ;  some  thought  the  inquirer  "  fou  "  for  occupjang  himself  so  idly.  They  had  Titiard  of  the  poet  certainly, 
but  that  was  aU  ;  of  any  good  he  had  ever  done  they  were  entirely  ignorant.  Macnee,  the  Scottish  painter,  tells  a 
story  that  he  and  some  friends  were  conversing  in  the  presence  of  an  old  farmer-lady,  who  seemed  to  listen  with  rapt 
attention.  At  length  she  said,  in  audible  tones,  to  one  who  sat  next  her,  "  I  canna  mak'  it  oot ;  they  are  a'  talking, 
talking,  aboot  painting  and  po'try,  joost  as  if  they  were  of  as  much  importance  as  sheep  !  "  Something  akin  to  this 
was  the  expedition  of  William  Howitt  to  Glasgow  in  search  of  guidance  concerning  Thomas  Campbell. 

+  He  was  naturally  proud  of  being  a  clansman  of  the  Clan-Campbells.  Lady  Charlotte  Campbell  (sister  of  the 
Duke -chief)  wrote— 

"  Bard  of  my  country,  clansman  of  my  race, 
How  proudly  do  I  call  thee  one  of  mine  !  " 

J  The  original  MS.— the  first  draft— of  *'  The  Pleasures  of  Hope  "  was  purchased  by  the  curators  of  the  British 
Museum. 

\  The  fourth  edition,  corrected  and  enlarged,  contains  no  fewer  than  154  lines— perhaps  the  finest  in  the  poem— 
which  are  not  in  the  first  edition. 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL.  351 


delightful  and  so  striking,  that  I  complimented  him  on  it,  and  he  said,  '  I  am  glad  to 
receive  that  compliment,  for  that  passage  has  cost  me  more  labour  and  more  thought 
than  any  equal  number  of  lines  in  the  whole  poem.'  " 
The  passage  referred  to  commences — 

"  Oh,  lives  there,  Heaven,  heneath  thy  dread  expanse, 
One  hopeless,  dark  idolater  of  chance  ? "  * 

At  a  late  period  of  life  he  published  an  illustrated  edition  of  his  poems  ;  they  had 
become  his  property,  I  presume,  in  consequence  of  the  term  of  twenty-eight  years 
from  their  original  publication  having  expired,  for  which  reason  the  copyright  reverted 
to  him.  The  edition  was  illustrated  by  engravings,  from  drawings  by  Turner  :  for 
these  drawings  he  paid  £25  each — £350  for  the  whole.  When  Campbell  sought  to 
sell  them,  he  did  so  in  vain,  offering  them  for  £300,  but  finding  no  purchaser,  until 
Turner  himself  bought  them  back  for  £200, — "  bits  of  painted  pasteboard,"  Campbell 
called  them,  and  an  adviser,  when  he  "  showed  him  Turner's  money,"  told  him 
"  they  had  been  re-purchased  at  twice  their  intrinsic  value."  They  would  now  pro- 
bably bring  £5,000  if  offered  for  sale.f 

In  1800  he  visited  Germany ;  his  fame  had  gone  before  him,  making  his  journey 
a  triumph.  He  saw,  from  the  rampart  of  the  Scotch  convent  at  Ratisbon,  the  horrors 
of  war  as  exhibited  at  the  storming  of  Ingolstadt — saw  the  dying  and  the  dead,  and 
heard  the  veritable  cannon  roar.  Out  of  this  visit  grew  some  of  the  noblest  of  his 
poems,  among  them  "  Hohenlinden." 

Campbell  had  his  early  struggles.  After  settling  in  London,  in  1803,  he  obtained 
a  situation  on  the  Star  newspaper,  and  gained  a  precarious  livelihood  as  a  writer  for 
the  press,  writing  anonymously  on  any  subject,  "  even  agriculture,"  for  daily  bread. 
But,  he  says,  "  the  wolf  was  at  the  door."  Among  his  other  troubles  he  had  to  pay 
£40  a  year  usurious  interest  on  a  sum  of  £200  borrowed  to  furnish  his  dwelling. 

That  dwelling  was  at  Sydenham,  then  a  retired  village,  not  easily  reached  from 
London.  The  house  in  which  he  resided  seventeen  years,  is  still  standing,  and  I  have 
pictured  it.  It  had  a  good  garden,  but  little  else  to  recommend  it ;  yet  here  the 
poet  received  his  brother  wits;  and  much  concerning  "evenings"  there  may  be 
found  in  the  Memoirs  of  Moore,  Hook,  Hunt,  the  brothers  Smith,  and  others. 


*  Several  instances  axe  recorded  of  Campbell  readily  acknowledging  the  source  whence  some  of  his  thoughts 
were  obtained.    A  writer  in  Fraser's  Magazine  (I  believe  Peter  Cunningham)  relates  this  anecdote  :  — 

"I  remember  remarking  to  Campbell  that  there  was  a  couplet  in  his  'Pleasures  of  Hope'  which  I  felt  an 
indescribable  pleasure  in  repeating  aloud,  and  in  filling  my  ears  with  the  music  which  it  made  : — 

'And  waft  across  the  wave's  tumultuous  roar 
The  wolf's  long  howl  from  Oonalaska's  shore.' 

'  Yes,'  he  said,  '  I'll  teU  you  where  I  got  it.    I  found  it  in  a  poem  called  The  Sentimental  Sailor,  published  about  the 
time  of  Sterne's  Sentimental  Journey.'  " 

The  poem  called  "  The  Sentimental  Sailor"  is  noticed,  and  extracts  from  it  are  given,  in  the  Scots'  Magazine  for 
Mai'ch,  1773.    The  style  and  versification  are  not  unlike  those  of  Campbell's  "  Pleasures  :  " — 

"  The  distant  Alps  in  horrid  grandeur  pUed, 
The  screaming  eagle's  shriek  that  echoes  wild, 
The  wolf's  long  howl  in  dismal  discord  joined,— 
These  suit  the  tone  of  my  desponding  mind." 

+  Mr.  Carruthers  informs  me  that  Campbell  used  to  relate  this  story : — "  '  Turner,  I  was  told  that  your  drawings 
■were  as  good  as  bank  notes;  but  as  I  cannot  dispose  of  them,  I  mean  to  have  a  raffle,  to  get  them  off  mj'  hands.' 
That  touched  the  pride  of  the  painter,  who  bought  them  back,  but  at  a  low  price  compared  with  his  charge  to  me." 


352 


MEMORIES. 


1 


Here  the  happiest  of  his  days  were  spent,  in  genial  and  congenial  society,  not 
alone  of  men  and  women  possessing  his  own  tastes,  but  of  others  who  fully  appre- 
ciated his  genius,  giving  him  not  only  honour,  but  affection. 

"  The  narrow  lane,  lined  with  hedgerows,  and  passing  through  a  little  dell 
watered  by  a  rivulet,"  "  the  extensive  prospect  of  undulating  hills,  park-like  enclo- 
sures," the  "  shady  walks,"  where  the  poet  was  "  safe  from  all  intrusion  but  that  of 
the  Muses,"  as  he  himself  describes  them — 

"  Spring  green  lanes, 
With  all  the  dazzling  field  flowers  in  their  prime, 
And  gardens  haunted  by  the  nightingale's 
Long  trills,  and  gushing  ecstasies  of  song  ; " 


Campbell's  ebsidence  at  Sydenham. 

— all  these  are  gone.  Sydenham  is  now  thoroughly  spoiled  as  a  suburban  retreat, 
where  the  recluse  of  letters  might  "  retire,  his  thoughts  call  home."  "An  endless 
pile  of  brick  "  is  the  sole  view  now  obtained  from  the  dwelling-place  of  the  bard,  if 
we  except  the  most  wonderful  creation  of  our  time — the  Crystal  Palace. 

Just  when  fate  seemed  most  unpropitious,  when  his  restless  mind  was  seeking 
repose  in  laudanum,  and  health  was  sinking  fast,  when  his  days  were  "  oppressed  and 
feverish,"  and  his  nights  "  sleepless,"  he  was  rescued  from  evils  worse  than  death  by 
a  Government  pension  of  £200  a  year.*     It  was,  as  his  good  physician  says,  and  as 


*  A  letter  from  CampbeU  to  Sir  Walter  Scott,  dated  October  2nd,  1805,  has  this  emphatic  postscript  :- 
iestv  has  been  pleased  to  confer  a  pension  of  £200  a  year  on  me.     Qod  save  the  King.' " 


Majesty  has  been  pleased  1 


-"  P.S.  His 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL.  353 


he  himself  thought,  "  a  defence  between  him  and  premature  dissolution."  Who  shall 
Say  from  what  utter  misery  the  poet  was  thus  preserved  ?  For  how  many  of  his 
glorious  works  are  we  indebted  to  that  wise  and  just,  yet  generous  aid  ?  He  never 
knew  to  whose  influence  he  owed  the  merciful  boon — he  knows  it  now!  A  "  cer- 
tainty" was  thus  secured  to  him.  Afterwards  he  inherited  more  than  one  legacy  : 
one,  amounting  to  nearly  ^65,000,  was  bequeathed  to  the  author  of  the  "Pleasures 
of  Hope  ; "  the  old  man  who  left  it  saying  that "  little  Tommy  the  poet  ought  to  have 
a  legacy,  because  he  had  been  so  kind  as  to  give  his  mother  £60  yearly  out  of  his 
pension."  How  oft  is  the  pot  of  honey  as  well  as  the  poisoned  chalice  returned  to 
our  lips!  It  made  him,  as  he  said,  "feel  as  blithe  as  if  the  devil  were  dead." 
Happier  would  it  have  been  for  himself  and  mankind,  if  his  gratitude  had  been  felt 
and  expressed  to  the  Giver  of  all  good. 

Yet  he  was  never  rich;  indeed,  he  was  generally  poor;  had  seldom  any  means 
for  luxuries,  seeming  to  have  been  "  in  straits  "  all  his  life.  A  very  short  time  before 
his  death  he  writes  from  Boulogne  to  Dr.  Beattie  thus  : — "  If  I  had  money  to  spare, 
I  should  remove  to  a  warmer  spot ;  but  I  am  in  a  cleft-stick,  for  I  have  neither 
money  to  meet  the  expense,  nor  courage  to  face  the  toil  and  trouble,  of  removal."  * 

In  1803  he  "  fell  in  love  with  and  married  his  cousin,  Matilda  Sinclair."  Bedding 
tells  us  she  had  no  literary  tastes  ;  but  she  had  travelled,  and  had  "  learned  to  make 
the  best  cup  of  Mocha  in  the  world."  To  the  poet,  however,  she  was  "  beautiful, 
lively,  and  ladylike."  They  wedded  with  very  little  "  gear,"  but  were  certainly 
happy  in  each  other.  I  knew  her  long  before  my  more  intimate  acquaintance  with 
Campbell,  when  they  were  living  in  Upper  Seymour  Place  West  in  1823,  and  I  have 
more  than  once  partaken  of  that  famous  "Mocha."  She  was  an  exceedingly 
pleasant,  "  chatty  "  lady,  of  agreeable  and  conciliating  manners,  and  certainly 
one  whom  a  poet  with  a  hopeful  fancy  might  have  dearly  loved.  Mrs.  Grant 
described  her  as  "  frugal,  simple,  and  sweet-tempered."  She  died  in  1828.  They 
had  but  one  son,  Thomas  Telford, f  who  was,  at  the  time  of  Avhich  I  write,  "  under 
restraint:"  his  name,  consequently,  is  seldom  heard  of  in  association  with  that  of 
his  illustrious  father ;  they  did  not  often  meet ;   but  it  is  certain  that  he  was  always 

*  Campbell's  course  was  that  of  most  men  of  letters.  "  I  was  by  no  means  without  literary  employment ;  but 
the  rock  on  which  I  split  was  oucr-caloulating  the  gains  I  could  make  from  them." 

+  Two  sons  were  born  to  him  ;  the  younger,  Alison,  a  child  of  great  promise,  died  at  Sydenham.  Thomas  Tel- 
ford, the  elder,  was  godson  to  the  great  civil  engineer  of  that  name,  who  bequeathed  £1,000  to  the  poet.  A  friend 
has  sent  me  the  copy  of  a  letter  (inedited)  from  Campbell  to  his  friend  Dr.  Gregory  : — 

"A  son  was  born  to  me  yesterday,  and  I  thank  God  that  both  mother  and  child  are  well.  I  happened,  however, 
to  be  unweU,  and  to  have  slept  none  for  a  night  or  two  before  the  birth.  The  joy  of  yesterday  was  such  as  I  never 
experienced  before.  I  need  not  describe  to  a  father  and  a  genuine  heart  what  feelings  of  instinct — unutterable, 
strange,  and  successive — shook  and  agitated  niy  frame  when  I  stood  over  my  boy  that  lay  in  his  first  sleep,  breathing 
sweetly,  and  I  dare  to  say  it  (is)  '  as  fine  an  infant  as  ever  heaven's  light  smiled  upon.'  I  bless  God  that  He  takes 
our  hearts  into  His  hands,  and  moulds  them  to  His  high  purposes. 

"  It  is  not,  however,  for  common  strength  to  enjoy  such  ecstasies  with  impunity.  I  could  not  govern  my 
mind  under  such  a  tumult  of  happiness ;  no  more  can  I  hold  up  my  body  any  longer  under  the  consequences  of 
being  excited  so  much  above  par  at  a  time  when  I  was  in  a  disordered  state  of  health.  It  is  to-day  that  I  feel  the 
effects  of  yesterday.  I  slept  none  last  night,  none  the  night  before,  and  little  or  none  the  preceding.  AU  the  anxiety 
of  the  birthday,  my  imeasiness  while  the  child  was  unborn,  the  effects  of  my  immorate  [sic]  exultation,  and  the  now 
returning  fear  for  the  health  of  my  wife,  operate  too  severely  on  me  to  sleep  yet.  But  although  forced  to  be  awake, 
I  can  do  nothing  in  the  way  of  industry.  I  could  not  write  a  syllabue  on  any  subject  if  it  were  to  make  me  Emperor 
of  Russia.  And  what  is  farther  unfortunate,  I  have  something  on  hand  to  execute  before  I  can  get  any  of  the 
money  which  is  now  so  necessary  for  my  family.  As  soon  as  1  have  recovered  myself  by  sleep,  1  must  go  on  with 
my  present  avocations,  and  when  I  have  a  little  leisure  I  shall  read  '  Prince  Ely,'  both  syllabus  and  letter. 

"  I  remain,  with  great  esteem  for  you  and  yours,  sincerely, 

"Thos.  Campbell." 
A    A 


354 


MEMORIES. 


1 


"  left  in  good  hands."  "  My  poor  boy  "  was  neither  neglected  nor  forgotten.  He 
still  lives  in  comfortable  retirement ;  and  although,  it  is  said,  of  eccentric  habits,  is 
not  more  heavily  afflicted  by  the  blight  that  had  fallen  on  the  youth  of  his  life. 

When  Campbell  undertook  the  editorship  of  the  iVew  Montkhj  he  left  Sydenham, 
to  which  he  often  reverted  as 

"  The  greenest  spot  in  Memory's  waste," 

and  took  up  his  permanent  abode  in  London. 


-J 


Campbell's  monument  in  Westminster  abbey. 


In  1829  he  formed  the  "  Literary  Union  Club,"  *  the  first  meeting  being  held  at 
his  house,  10,  Seymour  Street,  Connaught  Square,  on  the  4th  of  July  of  that  year  ; 
the  second  meeting  taking  place  at  the  house  of  the  artist,  W.  H.  Pickersgill,  R.A., 


•  Originally  it  was  intended  to  be  named  "  The  Campbell  Club,"  and  to  be  associated  with  a  club  under  that 
name  some  time  previously  established  at  Glasgow. 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL.  355 


in  Soho  Square.  I  was,  if  I  remember  rightly,  tlie  seventh  member  elected.  It  was 
formed  (to  consist  of  four  hundred  members)  "  for  the  purpose  of  promoting  frequent 
intercourse  among  the  Professors  of  Art,  Science,  and  Literature,"  on  a  principle  of 
economy.  Somehow  or  other  there  soon  arose  sundry  bickerings  :  there  was  about 
as  much  household  harmony  as  there  might  have  been  among  four  hundred  spiders 
agreeing  to  spin  a  single  web.  Some  idea  of  this  may  be  formed  from  the  following 
minute,  entered  on  its  books  on  the  15th  of  March,  1830  : — 

"  It  having  been  reported  to  the  Committee  that  a  member  of  the  club  had  pro- 
posed, in  the  book  of  candidates  for  election,  the  name  of  one  Gortz  (described  as  an 
esquire),  tailor  and  breeches  maker  in  the  Quadrant,  as  an  individual  duly  fit  and 
qualified  to  become  a  member  of  this  society— adding  thereto,  that  this  same  proposed 
person  '  would  have  much  pleasure  in  taking  measure  of  all  the  members ' — the  com- 
mittee regret,"  &c.  &c. 

The  first  elections  passed  tranquilly  enough ;  but  when  the  ballot  came  to  be  acted 
on,  out  of  ten  candidates  nine  were  black-balled — the  tenth  being  in  no  way  connected 
with  art,  science,  or  literature.  One  of  its  minutes  condemned  the  practice  of  taking 
away  newspapers  from  the  reading-room  ;  one  ordered  the  return  of  sixpence  to 
Mr.  Hobhouse,  being  an  overcharge  in  his  bill ;  and  another  of  a  like  sum,  being  an 
overcharge  to  a  gallant  captain  for  gin  and  water.  There  was  a  smattering  of  mag- 
nates in  art,  science,  and  letters ;  but  the  structure  was  composed  mainly  of  small 
fry.  Gradually  the  best  withdrew,  and  after  an  existence,  I  think,  of  about  three 
years,  it  fell  to  pieces. 

Campbell's  efforts  to  promote  the  cause  of  unhappy  Poland  were  not  so 
inauspicious;  at  least,  if  we  may  judge  from  the  fact  that  the  "  Literary  Association 
of  the  Friends  of  Poland,"  of  which  he  was  the  founder  and  the  first  president  (in 
1831),  existed  so  lately  as  1860,  occupying  the  apartments  it  originally  held — No.  10, 
Duke  Street,  St.  James's.  Campbell  lived  for  some  time  in  one  of  the  attics  of  that 
house  :  it  is  a  poor  and  small  room,  with  a  view  of  house-tops  ;  the  last  place  in  the 
world,  one  would  think,  a  poet  could  have  chosen  for  a  dwelling.  But  it  would  seem 
as  if  Campbell  preferred  to  abide  where  nature  was  quite  shut  out.  It  was  so  in 
Scotland  Yard,  in  Victoria  Square,  Pimlico,  and  in  other  places  where  he  dwelt — to 
think,  see,  feel,  and  write. 

The  miserable  attic  in  Duke  Street  is,  however — though  consisting  now  of  bare 
and  dilapidated  walls,  reached  by  a  narrow  and  somewhat  dangerous  stairway — a 
place  to  which  those  who  love  the  bard  and  honour  the  memory  of  one  who  has 
done  so  much  for  mankind  may  well  make  pilgrimage.  Over  the  fireplace  in  that 
poor  chamber  is  a  small  marble  slab,  which  contains  the  following  inscription  : — 

In  this  attic, 

THOMAS  CAMPBELL, 

Hope's  Bard  and  Mourning  Freedom's  Hope, 

lived  and  thought, 

A.D.  MDCCCXXXII., 

While  at  the  head  of  the  Literary  Association  of  the 

Friends  ot  Poland. 

Divinee  virtutis  pietati  ainicitia. 

1847. 

A.  B.  roi-. 

A    A  2 


356  MEMORIES. 


It  was  placed  there  by  a  German  named  Adolphus  Bacli,  who  was  his  successor  in 
the  lodging,  and  who  had  jointly  with  him  founded  the  Polish  Association. 

Neither  must  it  be  forgotten  that  he  was  chiefly  instrumental  in  founding  and 
establishing  the  London  University. 

As  one  of  the  foremost  men  of  the  age  and  country,  Campbell  was  honoured  dur- 
ing his  time,  and  will  receive  the  homage  of  the  generations  for  which  he  wrought. 
Thrice  he  was  Lord  Rector  of  the  University  of  Glasgow — the  place  of  his  birth  :  he 
was  elected,  it  was  said,  "by  a  show  of  hearts  ;"  it  was  "  a  sunburst  of  popular 
favour,"  and  he  valued  it  highly,  as  he  had  the  right  to  do.  For  once,  at  least,  a 
prophet  received  honour  in  his  own  country.     But  that  country  is  Scotland. 

To  Campbell's  personal  appearance  I  have  made  some  reference, — his  large  eyes, 
quivering  lips,  and  delicate  nostrils, — and  also  to  his  character,  in  so  far  as  I  was 
able  to  estimate  it :  both,  however,  have  been  treated  by  several  of  his  contemporaries. 
The  portrait  by  Lawrence,  painted  when  the  poet  was  in  his  prime,  was  his  favourite. 
It  ever  gave  him  great  delight.  "  When  I  look  at  it,"  he  said,  "  I  seem  to  be  view- 
ing myself  in  the  looking-glass  of  heaven."  Lockhart  thus  describes  him : — "  Thomas 
Campbell  has  a  poor  skull  upwards  compared  with  what  one  might  have  looked  for 
in  him  ;  but  the  lower  part  of  the  forehead  is  exquisite,  and  the  features  are  extremely 
good,  though  tiny."  He  is  thus  pictured  by  Leigh  Hunt :—"  His  face  and  person 
were  rather  on  a  small  scale,  his  features  regular,  his  eye  lively  and  penetrating  ;  and 
when  he  spoke,  dimples  played  about  his  mouth,  which,  nevertheless,  had  something 
restrained,  and  close  in  it."  Leigh  Hunt  also  writes  of  his  "  high  and  somewhat 
strained  voice,  like  a  man  speaking  with  suspended  breath,  and  in  the  habit  of  sub- 
duing his  feelings." 

Miss  Mitford  thus  describes  him  at  one  of  his  lectures  : — "  Campbell's  person  is 
extremely  insignificant,  his  voice  weak,  his  reading  detestable — neither  English  nor 
Scotch  ;  and  yet,  in  spite  of  these  disadvantages,  the  exquisite  beauty  of  the  images, 
the  soft  and  sweet  propriety  of  the  diction,  and  the  admirable  tact  of  his  criticisms, 
enchained  and  almost  electrified  the  audience." 

The  following  is  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Carruthers,  of  Inverness,  the  accomplished 
editor  of  Pope,  &c.  : — 

"  He  was  generally  careful  as  to  dress,  and  had  none  of  Dr.  Johnson's  indifference 
to  fine  linen.  His  wigs  were  always  nicely  adjusted,  and  scarcely  distinguishable 
from  natural  hair.  His  appearance  was  interesting  and  handsome.  Though  rather 
below  the  middle  height,  he  did  not  seem  little,  and  his  large  dark  eye  and  counte- 
nance bespoke  great  sensibility  and  acuteness.  His  thin  quivering  lip  and  delicate 
nostril  were  highly  expressive." 

Redding  says  that  Byron's  description  of  Campbell,  in  1813,  is  correct — regarding 
the  poet  down  as  late  as  1835  or  1836  ;  i.e.,  "Campbell  looks  well,  seems  pleased, 
and  dresses  sprucely.  A  blue  coat  becomes  him  ;  so  does  his  new  wig.  He  really 
looks  as  if  Apollo  had  sent  him  a  birthday  suit  or  a  wedding  garment,  and  was  witty 
and  lively."  Leigh  Hunt  describes  him  as  "a  merry  companion,  overflowing  with 
humour  and  anecdote;"  and  so,  indeed,  he  was  reported  by  many  of  his  familiar 
friends  ;   but  it  is  certain  that  his  "merry"  moods  were  only  common  after  dinner, 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 


357 


and,  as  one  poetical  associate  said,  "  very  unlike  a  Puritan  he  talked."  Montgomery, 
who  heard  him  lecture  at  the  Eoyal  Institution  in  1812,  thus  speaks  of  him  : — •"  He 
read  from  a  paper  before  him,  but  in  such  an  energetic  manner,  and  with  such  visible 
effect,  as  I  should  hai'dly  have  supposed  possible.  His  statements  were  clear,  his 
style  elegant,  and  his  reasoning  conclusive."  Haydon  describes  him  as  "  bilious  and 
shivering,"  and  Redding  records  that  "  his  natural  character  was  the  reverse  of 
equality — the  being  of  impulse  in  all."  He  grew  bald  when  a  mere  youth,  and  a 
wig  was  adopted  at  the  early  age  of  twenty- five. 

As  an  instance  of  his  absence  of  mind,  it  is  stated  that  posting  off  to  Brighton  to 
visit  Horace  Smith,  and  to  spend  a  few  days  with  the  family  he  dearly  loved,  he 
suddenly  discovered  he  had  left  all  his  money  on  his  table  at  his  lodgings,  and  posted 
back  to  town  to  get  it. 

Dr.  Beattie  tells  us  that  once,  when  invited  out  to  dinner,  he  had  forgotten  to 
change  some  article  of  his  morning  dress,  and  had  to  borrow  from  the  wardrobe  of 
some  near  friend.     In  one  of  his  playful  scraps,  he  writes  : — 

"  Oh,  picture  in  the  gallery  of  your  thought 
Me  asked  to  dine  abroad  :  shaved,  toileted, 
Busked  brave  in  silken  hose  and  glossy  shoon  ; 
But  rummaging  my  wardrobe,  struck  aghast 
To  find  no  wearable  untattered  shirt !  " 

When  he  spoke,  as  Leigh  Hunt  has  remarked,  "  dimples  played  about  his  mouth, 
which,  nevertheless,  had  something  restrained  and  close  in  it,  as  if  some  gentle 
Puritan  had  crossed  the  breed  and  left  a  stamp  on  his  face — ^such  as  we  see  in  the 
female  Scotch  face  rather  than  the  male." 

Dr.  Beattie  touches  very  lightly  on  "  his  infirmity," — "  a  habit  which  he  con- 
demned in  others,  but  could  not  conquer  in  himself."'  It  is  understood,  indeed,  that 
he  had  to  struggle  against  that  unhappy  tendency  from  the  time  he  was  twenty  years 
old.  A  very  little  was  to  him  too  much;  "  hence,"  it  is  said,  "  what  would  have 
have  been  only  moderation  in  other  men,  was  little  else  than  excess  in  him." 

At  the  memorable  dinner  of  the  Literary  Fund,  at  which  the  good  Prince  Albert 
presided  (on  the  11th  of  May,  1842),  the  two  poets,  Campbell  and  Moore,  were  called 
upon  to  speak.  The  author  of  "  The  Pleasures  of  Hope,"  heedless  of  the  duty  that 
devolved  upon  him,  had  "  confused  his  brain."  I  have  referred  to  that  evening  in 
my  memory  of  Moore.* 

In  1842,  when  he  was  barely  sixty-four,  Time  was  not  dealing  gently  with  him. 
He  conversed  less  freely ;  his  spirits  came  in  jerks,  so  to  speak  ;  and  in  company  he 
was  often  silent  and  thoughtful;  he  walked  feebly;  while  "  his  countenance  was 
strongly  marked  with  an  expression  of  languor  and  anxiety."  His  memory  grew 
treacherous,  and  he  had  the  characteristics  of  premature  old  age. 

To  the  wonder  of  his  friends,  for  the  event  was  unaccountable  (and  it  was  certainly 
in  opposition  to  the  advice  of  his  friend  and  physician),  he  went  to  reside  at  Boulogne, 

*  Mr.  Carruthers,  who  was  present,  informs  me  that  Campbell  was  not  tipsy,  but  he  had  an  excited  manner  ; 
the  audience  was  impatient ;  and  when  the  poet,  after  some  preUminary  words,  began,  "  As  Dugald  Stewart  says," 
they  coughed  him  down ;  he  got  confused,  made  two  or  three  attempts  to  continue  his  speech,  "  As  Dugald  Stewart 
says,"  but  failed  utterly.  Mr.  Carruthers  adds,  "  I  dined  with  him  next  day.  He  said  he  had  not  intended  to  speak 
long,  nor  to  touch  on  politics  (which  some  of  the  company  seemed  to  be  afraid  of ),  but  that  two  or  three  blackguards 
could  spoil  a  large  meeting." 


removing  his  books  from  his  then  residence  in  Yictoria  Square  (No.  8),  Pimhco. 
Infirmities  increased  upon  him ;  he  avoided  all  intercourse  with  fellow^-men,  and 
sought  a  comfortless  and  diseased  solitude,  having  none  of  that  consolation  which 
rpligion  gives  at  all  times,  but  especially  when  the  mind's  eye  sees  the  open  grave. 
He  was,  in  short,  to  borrow  a  line  of  his  own, — 

"  A  lonely  hermit  in  the  vale  of  years." 

In  June,  1844,  his  ever-dear  and  constant  friend,  Dr.  Beattie,  was  at  his  bedside; 
but  the  hand  of  death  was  on  him.  The  good  doctor  writes, — "  The  most  that  can 
be  done  is  to  paUiate  one  or  two  urgent  symptoms— to  treat  with  the  inexorable 
besieger,  and  obtain  a  surrender  on  as  easy  terms  as  we  may." 

On  the  15th  of  that  month  his  mortal  put  on  immortality.     He  had  been  attended 

by  a  clergyman,  and  joined  in  prayer.     "  We  shall  see to-morrow,"  naming  a 

long-departed  friend,  he  said,  and  left  earth. 

Dr.  Beattie,  who  stood  beside  him,  says,  "  The  last  sound  he  uttered  was  a  short 
faint  shriek,  such  as  a  person  utters  at  the  sudden  appearance  of  a  friend,  expressive 
of  pleasure  and  surprise.  This  may  seem  fanciful,"  he  adds,  "  but  I  know  of  nothing 
else  that  it  might  be  said  to  resemble." 

Many  such  cases  are  recorded,  and  on  evidence  that  cannot  be  disputed.  Surely 
it  is  not  mere  fancy  to  believe  that  a  spirit  departed  is  waiting  to  receive  the  spirit 
departing;  and,  at  the  moment  of  what  is  called  "Death,"  becomes  visible  to  the 
organs  of  the  soul  about  to  be  welcomed. 

The  picture  he  presented  in  death — the  features  in  cold  placid  relief — "  was  that 
of  a  wearied  pilgrim  resting  from  his  labours  ;  a  deep  untroubled  repose."  The 
good  doctor  writes  thus  : — "  Seldom  has  death  assumed  an  aspect  so  attractive,  and 
often  as  it  has  been  my  lot  to  contemplate,  under  various  circumstances,  the  features 
of  the  dead,  I  have  rarely,  if  ever,  beheld  anything  like  the  air  of  sublimity  that  now 
invests  the  face  of  the  deceased." 

And  thus  he  describes  the  dwelling  of  the  poet  after  the  spirit  had  left  it : — 
"  There  lay  the  breathless  form  of  him  who  had  impressed  all  sensitive  hearts  with 
the  magic  influence  of  his  genius,  the  hallowed  glow  of  his  poetry,  the  steady  warmth 
of  his  patriotism,  the  unwearied  labours  of  his  philanthropy  ;  the  man  whom  I  had 
seen  under  many  varieties  of  circumstances  :  in  public  the  observed  of  all  observers, 
in  private  the  delight  of  his  circle  ;  the  pride  of  his  country,  the  friend  of  humanity ; 
now  followed  with  acclamations,  now  visited  with  sorrows  ;  struggling  with  difficulties 
or  soured  with  disappointments  ;  then  striving  to  seek  repose  in  exile,  and  here  find- 
ing it  in  death." 

An  interesting  incident  is  recorded  by  the  same  liberal  hand.  The  old  nurse  was 
a  French  soldier's  widow.  She  twined  a  chaplet  of  laurel,  with  which,  as  a  mark  of 
homage,  she  asked  leave  to  encircle  the  poet's  brow.  The  day  was  the  18th  of  June, 
the  anniversary  of  Waterloo.  With  that  chaplet  on  his  head,  he  was  laid  in  his  coffin. 
Its  leaves  are  now  with  his  honoured  dust  in  Westminster  Abbey  ;  for  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  on  the  15th  of  July,  he  was  buried.  His  pall  was  born  by  the  Duke  of  Argyll, 
the  Earl  of  Aberdeen,  Lord  Brougham,  Lord  Leigh,  Lord  Dudley  Stuart,  Lord  Camp- 


HENRY  HART  MIL  MAN. 


359 


bell,  Lord  Morpeth,  Viscount  Strangford,  and  Sir  Robert  Peel ;  and  the  grave  that 
received  his  remains  was  surrounded  by  a  throng  of  poets  and  men  of  letters— his 
contemporaries. 

Well  do  I  remember  that  day  and  that  august  assemblage — in  the  Jerusalem 
Chamber,  famous  for  centuries — memories  inscribed  on  every  dark  oak  panel  of  that 
solemn  room  for  the  mind's  eye  to  read  !  There  they  waited  the  coming  of  the  dead  ; 
— illustrious  mourners,  many  of  them,  whose  own  resting-places  were  foreshadowed 
there,  under  the  fretted  roof  of  England's  proudest  mausoleum  of  her  heroes  of  pen 
and  sword.     It  was  a  dark  and  gloomy  day,  — 

"  The  sun's  eye  had  a  sickly  glare." 

There  was  solemn  and  impressive  silence — every  footfall  had  a  sound — as  we 
followed  the  poet  Milman,  who  read  the  touching  Burial  Service  for  the  dead.  And 
in  Poet's  Corner  they  placed  Thomas  Campbell.  A  lengthened  pause  preceded  the 
words,  "Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust;"  there  advanced  from  the  throng  a  Polish 
officer,  one  of  the  many  of  his  unhappy  nation  there  assembled.  He  dropped  upon 
the  coffin-lid  some  earth  gathered  for  the  purpose  from  the  grave  of  Kosciusko.  The 
effect  was  startling ;  but  it  became  a  thrill — the  hearts  of  all  there  present  beating 
audibly- — when  immediately  afterwards,  as  the  venerable  Dean  uttered  the  words,  "I 
heard  a  voice  from  heaven,"  a  thunder-clap  shook  the  old  Abbey — aisles,  pillars,  and 
roof.  He  paused ;  the  pause  continued  fall  a  minute,  and  as  the  awful  sound  sub- 
sided, the  assembly  heard  the  sentence  finished—"  they  rest  from  their  labours  !  "  * 


HENEY   HAET   MILMA]^. 

The  poet  Milman,  who  was,  on  that  memorable  day,  "  the  observed  of  all  observers," 
was  not  long  ago  called  from  earth.  There  are  many  who  can  remember  the  vene- 
rable Dean  of  St.  Paul's  ;  not  as  he  was  in  his  prime,  but  nearly  bent  double,  less 
from  age  than  from  spinal  weakness  or  disease. 

I  knew  him  in  1829,  when  fame  was  only  beginning  to  dawn  upon  him,  although 
his  tragedy  of  i^a<;io  had  been  successful — Miss  O'Neill  having  acted  the  leading  part,  f 
It  still  keeps  possession  of  the  stage. 


*  This  startling  incident  is  thus  referred  to  in  a  poem  of  surpassing  beauty,  "  The  Interment  of  Thomas  Camp- 
bell," -written  by  Theodore  Martin  :— 

"  Louder  yet,  and  yet  more  loudly,  let  the  organ's  thunders  rise  : 
Hark !  a  louder  thunder  answers,  deepening  inwards  to  the  skies, — 
Heaven's  majestic  diapason,  pealing  as  from  east  to  west : 
Never  grander  music  anthem'd  poet  to  his  home  of  rest." 

■t  Miss  O'Neill,  who  became  (in  the  year  1820, 1  believe)  the  wife  of  an  Irish  gentleman,  Sir  Wrixon  Beecher, 
Bart  died  so  recently  as  1865.  She  was  seen  not  long  before  her  death  at  the  private  view  of  the  Boyal  Academy, 
and  attracted  the  attention  of  many  artists,  who  did  not  know  who  she  was,  by  the  exceeding  beauty  of  age,  which 
anv  artist  might  have  loved  to  paint— better,  perhaps,  t>an  if  she  had  been  in  the  bloom  of  youth,  as  she  was  when 
I  saw  her  act  in  1819.  She  was  then  very  beautiful,  with  delicate  and  refined  features  and  slender  form  ;  her  eyes 
were  li"-ht  blue,  her  complexion  even  more  than  commonly  fair  ;  her  smile  dehcious  ;  her  hair  was  blonde-m  1865 
white  as  snow— and  she  did  not  strive  to  conceal  the  change  that  time  had  wrought.  Those  who  have  seen  her  act 
cannot  have  forgotten  the  impression  she  made.  In  some  characters,  such  as  Juliet  and  Monimia,  her  acting 
was  of  great  excellence.    She  did  not,  if  I  recollect  rightly,  attempt  any  of  the  parts  which  nature  had,  so  to 


36o  MEMORIES. 


He  was  born  in  London,  in  1791,  and  was  the  youngest  son  of  an  eminent 
physician.  Sir  Francis  Milman.  He  received  his  early  education  at  a  school  in  Green- 
wich, where  Dr.  Charles  Burney  was  his  tutor.  He  was  afterwards  placed  at  Eton ; 
and,  in  1810,  entered  at  Brasenose  College,  Oxford.  He  soon  became  a  distinguished 
scholar ;  obtained  prizes  for  English  and  Latin  verse,  and  for  English  and  Latin 
essays  ;  and  gained  first  honours  in  the  examinations.  In  1815  he  became  a  Fellow 
of  his  college,  and  in  1817  took  holy  orders,  and  was  presented  to  the  vicarage  of 
St.  Mary,  Beading.  In  1821  he  was  elected  Professor  of  Poetry  in  the  University  of 
Oxford.  Subsequently  he  became  rector  of  St.  Margaret's,  Westminster,  and  in 
1849  was  appointed  to  the  deanery  of  St.  Paul's.  In  1830  he  pubhshed  a  "  History 
of  the  Jews,"  a  work  which  gave  rise  to  much  controversy,  and  subjected  the  writer 
to  various  attacks,  on  the  ground  that  he  desired  to  merge  the  divine  in  the  historian, 
and  to  exhibit  himself  as  a  simple  narrator  of  facts,  without  any  regard  to  the  source 
whence  he  derived  his  materials,  as  an  inspired  and  infallible  record.  He  was 
accused  of  treating  the  Bible  as  a  philosophical  inquirer  would  treat  any  profane 
work  of  antiquity, — ^as  having  ascribed  to  natural  causes  events  which  the  Scriptures 
unequivocally  declare  to  be  miraculous, — and  as  having,  therefore,  unwittingly  con- 
tributed to  subvert  the  bulwarks  of  faith,  he  was  bound,  by  every  consideration  of 
honour  and  consistency,  to  defend.  Such  criticisms,  however,  he  ably  and  effectually 
combated. 

Forty  years  had  passed  between  the  time  when  I  saw  him  first  and  that  when  I 
saw  him  last.  In  1829,  when  my  first  interview  with  him  took  place  at  Oxford,  he 
was  sitting  in  a  small  room  in  his  college,  preparing  for  the  prominent  part  he  was 
to  take  that  day  at  the  Triennial  Commemoration.  He  was  then  a  remarkably  hand- 
some man  in  the  prime  of  life — verging  upon  forty,  with  a  reputation  made,  a  position 
obtained,  and  ample  honours  looming  in  the  future.  He  struck  me  as  the  ideal  of  a 
Churchman — conscious  of  power  ;  adding  to  his  other  advantages  those  of  person 
and  feature.  He  was  an  aged  man  when  he  died,  yet  looked  older  than  his  years. 
His  dark  eyebrows,  however,  indicated  intellectual  vigour,  and  he  seemed  what  he 
was,  a  man  of  high  principle,  whose  temptations  from  the  path  of  duty  had  been  few, 
and  who  only  lacked  the  sympathy  that  is  usually  born  of  suffering  to  make  him  as 
much  loved  as  a  man  as  he  was  venerated  as  a  pastor. 

The  long  space  between  his  earliest  triumph  and  the  close  of  his  labours  was 
worthily  filled  by  the  clergyman,  the  critic,  the  dramatist,  the  historian,  and  the  poet; 
and  no  man  has  been  more  honoured  and  respected  in  his  generation. 

But  his  study  had  been  the  cloister  ;  and  neither  in  the  city  nor  the  fields — where 
men  congregate  or  nature  revels  free — did  he  woo  the  Muse.     Hence  his  poems  are 


speak,  forbidden  her  to  represent.  From  the  outset  of  her  appearance  in  pnhlio,  she  preserved  a  character  which  the 
breath  of  calumny  never  touched  ;  yet  she  was  in  a  manner  born  on  the  stage,  for  her  father  was  an  actor.  It  is 
needless  to  say  that,  as  Lady  Beecher,  she  won  the  "  golden  opinions  "  of  all  with  whom  she  came  into  contact ;  but 
her  life  had  been  more  than  retired  :  society  saw  little  of  her  when  she  quitted  the  stage,  and  not  long  afterwards 
became  a  widow.  She  was  no  doubt  indebted  for  much  of  her  success  on  the  stage  to  her  sweet  expression  and  lovely 
form  and  face.  As  an  actress,  there  have  been  many  greater.  She  was  not  to  be  compared  with  "  Helen  Faucit" 
(Mrs.  Theodore  Martin),  but  that  accomplished  lady  is  the  greatest  actress  I  have  ever  seen;  and  I  have  seen  aU 
who  have  become  famous  since  1820.  Mrs.  Theodore  Martin  we  have  long  had  the  privilege  to  class  among  the 
most  valued  of  our  friends. 


LORD  MACAULAY.  '  361 


fine  examples  of  cultivated  intellect  and  refined  taste,  which  rarely  move  the  sympa- 
thies or  touch  the  heart. 

He  was  like  his  writings  :  there  was  a  stately  and  formal  dignity  in  his  manner,  in 
keeping  with  their  solemn  and  elevated  style.  And  he  himself  seemed  an  apt  guide 
— but  little  influenced  by  human  passions  and  desires — into  a  temple  grand,  lofty, 
spacious,  and  marble-paved,  but  the  chill  of  which  is  keenly  felt  the  moment  the 
inner  gate  is  passed. 

He  died  on  the  24th  of  September,  1868,  nearly  the  latest  of  all  the  poets  whose 
birthdays  commenced  in  the  last  century. 


HENEY   HALLAM. 

I  AM  reminded  of  another  of  the  men  of  mark  whom  I  met  often  in  general  society — 
the  historian  Henry  Hallam.  He  was  born  in  1778,  and  died  so  recently  as  1862. 
His  father  was  Dean  of  Wells.  His  works  are  authorities — not  only  in  reference  to 
facts,  but  for  their  exceeding  perspicuity  and  their  obvious  study  of  truth,  away  from 
party,  although  he  was  a  Whig,  and  a  strong  adherent  and  supporter  of  the  political 
leaders  who,  when  he  was  in  his  vigour,  fought  with  little  prospect  or  hope  of 
victory. 

Hallam  was  a  tall  and  remarkably  handsome  man,  very  stately  in  look  and  manner. 
His  countenance  was  thoughtful  and  intelligent,  yet  by  no  means  stern.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  was  kindly  and  condescending.  I  had  once  occasion  to  apply  to  him  for 
information.  He  gave  it  graciously  and  gracefully,  and  appeared  as  if  he  had  received 
instead  of  conferred  a  compliment. 


LOED   MACAULAY. 

I  KNEW  as  little  of  Thomas  Babington  Macaulay  as  I  did  of  Henry  Hallam  :  my  inter- 
course with  the  great  critic  and  historian  was  Hmited  to  one  visit  while  he  resided  at 
the  Albany,  Piccadilly.  I  had  tendered  to  him  some  information  concerning  the  scene  of 
the  Battle  of  the  Boyne  ;  and  he  wrote  to  me  a  gracious  letter  asking  me  to  call  upon 
him.    During  a  long  conversation  that  ensued  I  was  impressed — as  were  all  who  ever 

saw  him by  his  marvellous  power  to  obtain,  that  he  might  communicate,  facts. 

Although  his  scrutiny  of  the  Boyne  Water  had  been  but  for  a  few  hours,  he  seemed 
to  know  really  more  of  it  than  I  did,  and  could  have  imparted  on  the  subject  more  to 
me  than  I  could  have  given  to  him.  I  said  as  much,  and  deemed  an  apology  neces- 
sary for  my  offered  help.  I  do  not  forget  the  exceeding  earnestness  and  courtesy 
with  which  he  thanked  me,  making  reference  to  one  incident  that  had  not  been  pre- 
viously within  his  knowledge. 


He  was  born  in  1800,  died  on  the  28th  of  December,  1859,  and  was  buried  in 
Westminster  Abbey.  It  was  a  grand  throng  of  British  worthies  that  accompanied 
his  remains  to  their  grave. 

My  remembrance  of  him  is  that  of  a  man  of  middle  size  and  robust,  "  stout  on 
his  limbs  ; "  his  features  were  not  remarkable  for  any  peculiar  or  strong  expression ; 
his  head  was  good,  but  not  intellectually  grand.  No  doubt  he  owed  much  to  the 
retentive  memory  he  is  said  to  have  possessed.  Harriet  Martineau  writes : — 
"  Before  his  retirement  from  the  House  of  Commons  in  1856  "  (he  was  elevated  to 
the  peerage  in  1857),  "  he  was  the  mere  wreck  of  his  former  self;  his  eye  was  deep 
sunk  and  often  dim,  his  full  face  was  wrinkled  and  haggard,  his  fatigue  in  utterance 
was  obviously  very  great,  and  the  tremulousness  of  limb  and  feature  melancholy  to 
behold." 


MES.   HEMANS. 


ELICIA  DOROTHEA  BEOWNE  was   born  in  Duke  Street, 
Liverpool,  on  the  25th  of  September,  1793.     The  house  is  not 
known.  Some  years  ago  I  wandered,  "on  a  voyage  of  discovery," 
vfe/         through  the  quaint  old  street,  situated  in  the  lower  part  of  the 
T^    town,  near  the  river  and  the  Custom-house.     Many  of  the  dwell- 
ings are  a  century  old,  with  venerable  porches  that  speak  of  former 
respectability,  and   fancy  may  accord  the  honour  to  any  one  of 
them.*     Her  father,  of  Irish  parentage  and  birth,  was  a  merchant 
in  the  great  capital  of  sea-commerce ;  her  mother.  Miss  Wagner,  was 
of  Italian  descent,  and  the  poet  was  fond  of  tracing  the  peculiar  ten- 
dency of  her  mind  to  the  Venetian  blood  she  inherited.     But  to  that 
mother  she  was  indebted  for  higher  boons.     She  was  a  good  and  accom- 
plished woman,  who  gave  to  her  daughter  those  lessons  of  practical  virtue 
that  were  early  learned,  to  be  afterwards  taught  in  immortal  verse. f 


*  Possibly,  however,  some  persevering  inquirer  may  find  it  out,  for  it  is  said  in  the  GenUeman's  Magazine,  1835 — ■ 
"  She  was  born  in  Duke  Street,  in  a  house  now  inhabited  by  Mr.  Molyneux." 

+  A  near  relation  of  the  family  (a  son  of  a  niece  of  Mr.  Browne),  whom  I  chanced  to  meet  not  long  ago  told  me 
that  Mr.  Browne  was  bom  in  the  city  of  Cork.  His  father  was  a  member  of  a  mercantile  firm.  The  father  of 
Mrs.  Hemans— George — was  sent  over  to  arrange  some  affairs  in  Liverpool,  and,  "being  handsome  and  very  pre- 
possessing," won  the  heart  of  Miss  Wagner,  married  her,  and  settled  in  Liverpool.    He  died  in  Canada. 


364  MEMORIES. 


Happily,  while  still  very  young,  her  father  retired  to  comparative  solitude  in 
North  Wales,*  and  in  that  wild,  romantic,  and  picturesque  country,  closely  com- 
muning with  Nature,  her  taste  was  formed,  and  her  mind  strengthened.  During 
nearly  the  whole  of  her  life  she  was  a  resident  in  the  land  she  loved  intensely.  It 
retained  its  charm,  even  after  she  had  visited  Ireland,  Scotland,  and  the  English 
Lakes. 

Two  years  before  she  had  "  entered  her  teens  "  she  produced  a  volume  of  poems. 
Other  works  followed,  and  her  name  had  become  famous  when,  in  her  nineteenth 
year,  she  married  Captain  Alfred  Hemans,  of  the  4th  Regiment,  a  gentleman  closely 
connected  with  one  of  the  oldest  Welsh  families  in  the  neighbourhood.  Although  no 
quarrel  arose,  the  marriage  was  not  a  happy  one.  Captain  Hemans  was  much  older 
than  his  wife,  and  his  health  having  been  impaired  by  foreign  service,  he  became,  a 
few  years  after  they  wedded,  a  permanent  resident  in  Italy  ;  Mrs.  Hemans  continuing 
to  reside  in  Wales,  rearing  and  educating  five  sons  who  were  born  to  them,  working 
for  her  own  and  their  honourable  independence.! 

"  She  was  married  at  eighteen,  in  all  the  trustfulness  of  a  young  enthusiastic 
nature,  but  was  fated  soon  to  see  her  dreams  of  happiness  give  place  to  sad  realities, 
and  the  blight  thus  cast  upon  her  affections  tinged  with  mournfulness  a  temperament 
naturally  ardent  and  joyous." 

On  this  sad  subject  she  rarely  spoke,  even  to  her  nearest  friends.  Mrs.  Lawrence 
tells  us  it  was  "  sacred  and  unapproachable."  It  would  be  only  evil  now  to  seek  to 
fathom  the  mystery.  No  doubt  it  was  the  shadow  that  cast  a  perpetual  gloom  over 
her  path  through  life,  and  gave  a  tone  of  sadness  to  all  she  wrote.  She  exclaims  in 
one  of  her  poems, — 

"  Tell  me  no  more 
Of  my  soul's  gifts !     Are  they  not  vain 
To  quench  its  haunting  thirst  for  happiness  \ " 

From  the  time  he  left  her,  for  seventeen  years,  the  husband  and  wife  never  met. 
Her  duties,  and  perhaps  her  natural  disposition,  kept  her  apart  from  the  bustle  of 
life.  Except  once,  I  believe,  she  never  visited  London.  She  loved  solitude,  and 
enjoyed  its  calm  ;  indeed,  it  was  in  a  great  degree  necessary  to  her,  for  her  constitu- 
tion was  always  delicate.  Subsequently  she  lived  at  Bronwylfa,  near  to  St.  Asaph, 
the  residence  of  her  brother.  General  Sir  H.  Browne  :  that  home  is  one  of  the 
abiding-places  I  have  pictured.  She  found  time,  however,  to  learn  as  well  as  to 
write  much  ;  and,  it  is  said,  had  intimate  acquaintance  with  several  modern  languages, 
and  with  the  Latin  also,  which,  probably,  she  acquired  that  she  might  better  teach 
her  sons. 

But  Rhyllon,  also  near  to  St.  Asaph,  was  the  residence  she  most  loved.  On  G-eneral 
Sir  Henry  Browne's  second  marriage,  she,  with  her  mother,  sister,  and  all  her 
children,  went  to  reside  there  (it  was  another  of  Sir  Henry's  houses).  Here  she 
dwelt  during  the  remainder  of  the  years  she  passed  in  Wales. 

*  Their  first  dwelling  was  at  Grwych,  near  Abergele,  a  house  which  had  the  reputation  of  being  "  haunted." 
+  The  eldest  son— George  WiUoughby  Hemans— is  the  distinguished  civil  engineer,  who  occupies  one  of  the 
highest  positions  in  his  profession,  and  is  universally  esteemed  and  respected.     He  has  made  some  of  the  most 
important  "  Lines  "  in  Ireland,  and  has  also  been  much  employed  in  England  and  on  the  Continent. 


i 


MRS.   REMANS.  365 


For  three  or  four  years  she  lived  at  "Wavertree,  a  village  suburb  of  Liverpool. 
The  house  is  now  surrounded  with  unpicturesque  dwellings,  and  is  conspicuous  for 
the  absence  of  attractions  that  formed  her  chief  delight  in  Wales.  For  some  time 
she  resided  in  Westmoreland.  Not  far  from  the  shores  of  Windermere  is  "Dove's 
Nest,"  still  a  pretty,  yet  unpretending,  cottage.  Here  she  had  the  frequent  com- 
panionship of  the  poet  she  most  honoured  and  loved  ;  and  Wordsworth,  in  return 
for  sweet  companionship,  gave  her  the  wealth  of  his  friendship,  and  accorded  to  her, 
perhaps,  greater  homage  than  he  paid  to  any  other  of  his  contemporaries.  "  Dove's 
Nest  was,"  according  to  Mrs.  Hemans,  "  originally  designed  for  a  small  villa  ;  "  but 
it  had  passed  from  the  careful  hands  that  meant  it  for  "  a  home  ;"  "  traces  of  love  " 
had  been  gradually  effaced ;  the  garden  was  a  wild ;  the  sweet-brier  and  the  moss- 
rose  had  degenerated.  Thus  she  writes  : — "An  air  of  neglect  hangs  about  the  little 
demesne,  which  does  not  at  all  approach  desolation,  and  yet  gives  it  something  of 
touching  interest."  .   .   .   .   "  Perhaps  some   heart  like  my  own  in  its   feelings  and 


.*2^-^         ^>^-^,o<<^ 


'^^r^'^a^'Zi^^^^ ' 


sufferings  has  here  sought  refuge  and  repose."  But  there  was  "  a  glorious  view  of 
Windermere  from  an  old-fashioned  alcove  "  in  the  garden. 

Circumstances  induced  her  to  remove  her  residence  to  Dublin.  Her  brother 
(then  Colonel  Browne*)  held  an  important  office  there,  as  Chief  of  the  Metropolitan 
Constabulary,  and  the  Irish  capital  offered  strong  temptations  for  the  education  of 
her  sons.  In  that  city  she  dwelt  about  four  years,  and  there  she  quitted  earth  on 
the  16th  of  May,  1835. 

Her  death-bed  was  a  becoming  close  to  a  high,  a  holy,  and  a  useful  life.  Her 
sister  writes  : — "  The  dark  and  silent  chamber  seemed  illumed  by  light  from  above, 
and  cheered  by  spirit  songs.  She  would  say  that  in  her  intervals  from  pain  '  no 
poetry  could  express,  nor  imagination  conceive,  the  visions  of  blessedness  that  flitted 
across  her  fancy.'  " 

And  so  her  last  hours  were  spent ;  first,  in  communing  with  her  own  heart,  and 

*  Colonel  Browne,  C.B.,  was  for  many  years  an  oflacer  in  the  23rd— the  Welsh  Fusiliers.  My  eldest  brother  was 
an  ensign  in  that  regiment,  and  fell  at  Albuera.  Conversing,  by  chance,  on  the  subject,  wi^h  Colonel  Browne,  he 
told  me  he  had  taken  from  the  field  my  mortally-wounded  brother,  who  next  morning  died  in  his  arms. 


366 


MEMORIES. 


the  unutterable  comfort  she  derived  from  trust  in  her  Redeemer ;  and  next,  in  trans- 
mitting affectionate  and  consoHng  messages  to  friends  ;  in  sending  memory  back  to 
old  homes  by  the  sea- shore,  to  mountain  rambles,  to  pleasant  outlooks  upon  green 
fields,  to  the  haunts  and  the  books  she  loved ;  filling  a  darkened  room  in  a  crowded 
city  with  happy  thoughts  and  cheerful  sights ;  no  repinings,  no  murmurings  ;  a  holy 
calm,  a  grateful  resignation,  fervent  faith,  unbounded  trust !  Under  the  influence  of 
these  mingled  sensations,  feelings,  hopes,  she  dictated  to  her  brother  the  last  of  her 
poems,  "  The  Sabbath  Sonnet."  It  breathes  the  beautiful  humanity,  loving-kindness, 
and  holy  devotion  that  characterised  all  her  works. 


MBS.   HEIIANS'    HOUSE   AT    BKONWYLFA. 


No  record  of  Mrs.  Hemans  should   be  without  a  copy  of  that  sonnet.     It  was 
dictated  to  Colonel  Browne  on  Sunday,  the  26th  of  April : — 

"  How  many  blessed  groups  this  hour  are  wending, 
Through  England's  priini'ose  meadow  paths,  the  way 
Toward  spire  and  tower,  'mid  shadowy  elms  ascending, 
Whence  the  sweet  chimes  proclaim  the  hallowed  day  ! 
The  halls,  from  old  heroic  ages  grej'. 
Pour  their  fair  children  forth  ;  and  hamlets  low, 
With  whose  thick  orchard  blooms  the  soft  T\dnds  play, 
Send  out  their  inmates  in  a  happy  flow, 
Like  a  freed  vernal  stream.     /  may  not  tread 
With  them  those  pathways, — to  tlie  feverish  bed 
Of  sickness  bound  ;  yet,  O  my  God !  I  bless 
Thy  mercy,  that  with  Sabbath  peace  hath  filled 
My  chastened  heart,  and  all  its  throbbings  stilled 
To  one  deep  calm  of  lowliest  thankfulness." 

This  is  the  picture  her  sweet  sister  draws  of  her  death-bed,  or  rather  of  her  state 
just  previous  to  her  removal  from  earth: — "Her  sleep  was  calm   and  happy   and 


MRS.   HEMANS. 


367 


none  but  pleasing  dreams  ever  visited  her  couch.  Serenity  and  submission  shed 
their  influence  over  all.  At  times  her  spirit  would  appear  half  etherealised,  her 
mind  would  seem  to  be  fraught  with  deep  and  holy  and  incommunicable  thoughts, 
and  she  would  entreat  to  be  left  alone,  in  stillness  and  darkness,  to  '  commune  with 
her  own  heart,'  and  reflect  on  the  '  mercies  of  the  Saviour.'  "  "  She  will  not," 
wrote  one  of  her  friends,  "  allow  a  mournful  look  or  tone  at  her  bedside."  Mrs. 
Lawrence  writes,  "  She  had  frequent  wanderings  of  mind,  but  the  images  she  dwelt 
on  were  mostly  beautiful,  and  with  no  terror  in  them  ;  and  her  release  was  as 
peaceful  as  that  of  an  infant  falling  to  sleep.  She  uttered  a  scarcely  audible  sigh, 
and  expired." 


I'^#&.-. 


One  of  the  latest  of  her  poems,  "  The  Poet's  Dying  Hymn,"  has  these  lines  :— 

"  I  bless  thee  with  my  glad  song's  dying  breath, 
I  bless  thee,  0  my  God ! " 

The  room  in  which  she  passed  away  was  a  back  room  in  a  house  in  Dawson 
Street,  Dublin— a  corner  house  of  St.  Stephen's  Green  ;  but  of  that  fine  square  she 
had  no  view.  It  may  have  contrasted  wearily  with  the  prospect  from  Grwych, 
Bronwylfa,  and  Rhyllon  ;  but  her  heart  was  far  from  it,  half-way  to  heaven  before 
she  quitted  earth. 

"  The  chamber  where  the  good  man  meets  his  fate 
Is  pi'ivileged  beyond  the  common  walk 
Of  virtuous  life— quite  on  the  verge  of  heaven  !  " 


3^)8 


MEMORIES. 


1 


I  visited  that  house  a  few  years  ago,  and  also  the  neighbouring  church  of  St. 
Anne,  m  a  vault  underneath  which  lie  her  remains.  A  mural  tablet  contains  her 
name,  her  age,  and  the  date  of  her  death,  with  the  following  lines  from  one  of  her 
poems : — 

"  Calm  on  the  bosom  of  thy  God, 

Fair  spirit,  rest  thee  now  ! 
Even  while  with  us  thy  footsteps  trod 

His  seal  was  on  thy  brow. 
Dust  to  its  narrow  house  beneath ! 

Soul  to  its  place  on  high  I 
They  that  have  seen  thy  look  in  death 

No  more  may  fear  to  die." 


There  is  a  memorial  window  in  the  church-placed  there  by  public  subscription, 
chiefly  by  the  exertions  of  the  vicar,  the  Rev.  H.  H.  Dickinson. 

Such  is  a  brief  outline  of  the  uneventful  life  of  a  poet  whose  writings  are  known, 
valued,  and  loved  throughout  the  world. 

Of  Mrs.  Hemans  I  knew  personally  but  little.  I  saw  her  only  once— in  her 
cottage  at  Wavertree.  She  was  ill,  and  my  visit  was  a  brief  one ;  the  more  brief 
because  I  was  under  a  promise  to  repeat  it,  but  unhappily  that  promise  I  was  not 
permitted  to  keep,  for  she  grew  worse,  and  the  enjoyment  I  anticipated  was  post- 
poned to  a  time  that  was  not  to  come  on  earth.  But  I  had  frequent  correspondence 
with  her,  and  during  my  editorship  of  the  New  Monthly  she  was  a  regular  writer  in 


MRS.   HEMANS.  369 


that  magazine  ;  while  some  of  the  most  charming  of  her  poems,  "  The  Hebrew 
Mother,"  "  Passing  Away,"  "  The  Trumpet  Song,"  and  others,  were  contributed 
by  her  to  the  Amulet — of  which  also  I  was  Editor.  For  the  'New  Monthly  she 
Avrote  the  only  prose  she  published. 

Wavertree  was  comfortless  and  uncheerful,  calculated  to  depress  rather  than  to 
enliven.  Her  house  there  was  the  corner  of  a  row,  with  a  small  garden  in  front,  and 
another  behind  ;  but  the  flowers  she  so  dearly  loved  could  not  grow  in  that  dull 
atmosphere.  From  all  rural  sights  and  sounds  she  was  utterly  excluded.  There  was 
no  breeze  to  bring  joy  and  health  to  the  flowers  or  to  her. 

Her  early  delicacy  of  frame  no  doubt  influenced  her  mind.  She  did  not  seek  the 
usual  enjoyments  of  young  girls.  Her  pleasure  was  in  solitude,  in  the  companion- 
ship of  books,  and  in  the  discharge  of  the  duties  that  after-life  brought  to  her.  There 
is  said  to  have  been  a  prophetic  utterance  by  some  one,  "  That  child  is  not  made  for 
happiness — her  colour  comes  and  goes  too  fast;"  and  Miss  Landon  states  that  she 
once  asked  Miss  Jewsbury  if  she  thought  Mrs.  Hemans  a  happy  person.  "  No,"  was 
the  reply,  "her  enjoyment  is  feverish,  and  she  desponds;  she  is  like  a  lamp  whose 
oil  is  consumed  by  the  light  it  yields  ; "  and  there  was  sad  truth  in  her  own  lines  : — • 

"  All  the  -vivid  interests  of  life  look  pale 
And  dim  around  me." 

Hers  was  that  beauty  which  depends  mainly  on  expression.  Like  her  writings, 
it  was  thoroughly  womanly.  Her  auburn  hair,  parted  over  her  brow,  fell  on  either 
side  in  luxuriant  curls.  Her  eyes  are  described  as  "  dove-like,"  with  a  chastened 
character  that  appertained  to  sadness.  "  A  calm  repose,"  so  writes  one  of  her  friends, 
"  not  unmingled  with  melancholy,  was  the  characteristic  expression  of  her  face  ;  but 
when  she  smiled,  all  traces  of  sorrow  were  lost,  and  she  seemed  to  be  but  '  little 
lower  than  the  angels ' — fitting  shrine  for  a  soul  so  pure." 

Her  portrait  is  thus  given  by  her  friend  Mrs.  Lawrence  : — "  Mrs.  Hemans  was  of 
an  excellent  height,  just  not  tall,  and  of  a  slight  and  pleasing  form  ;  the  hands 
very  delicate  and  pretty.  She  had  a  profusion  of  auburn  hair,  and  the  blue  eyes  and 
colouring  of  the  complexion  were  analogous."  "  She  had  been  in  youth  very  beauti- 
ful, but  she  faded  early; "  and  she  adds  that  "  her  language  and  imagery  in  speaking 
were  studiously  correct  and  beautiful — hardly  less  so  than  in  her  poetry." 

"  Delta"  (Dr.  Moir),  prefacing  one  of  the  volumes  of  her  poems,  describes  her  as 
"  about  the  middle  height,  rather  slender ;  her  countenance  of  great  intelligence 
and  expression."  "In  all  her  feelings,"  he  adds,  "she  is  intensely  and  entirely 
feminine."  ....  "  Over  all  her  pictures  of  humanity  are  spread  the  glory  and  the 
grace  reflected  from  purity  of  morals,  dignity  of  sentiment,  beauty  of  imagery,  sub- 
limity of  religious  faith,  and  ardour  of  patriotism." 

But  Moir,  if  he  ever  saw  her  (which  he  might  have  done  during  her  brief  visit  to 
Edinburgh),  knew  little  of  her;  and  perhaps  Miss  Williams  (Ysgafell),  who  wrote  a 
Memoir  of  her,  knew  less.  She  is  thus  described  by  that  writer,  no  doubt,  however, 
from  "hearsay:" — "Her  personal  appearance  was  highly  attractive;  she  was  of 
middle  stature  and  slight  in  figure  ;  her  complexion  was  exquisitely  fair,  clear,  and 

B    B 


370  MEMORIES. 


1 


bright ;  her  silky  and  luxuriant  hair  was  in  colour  of  a  rich  golden  brown  ;  her  fine 
eyes  were  radiant  with  genius." 

Mrs.  Hemans  knew,  indeed,  but  few  persons.  Though  her  friends  were  many, 
and  her  admirers  numerous,  her  acquaintances  were  limited.  "  My  whole  life,"  she 
writes,  "  has  lain  within  the  circle  of  those  wild  Welsh  hills,  and  I  know  nobody." 
Perhaps  the  best  portrait  of  her  is  that  of  her  friend  Miss  Jewsbury  : — "  She  is  lovely 
without  being  beautiful  ;  her  rich  and  silky  brown  hair,  of  unusual  length,  flowed 
round  her,  when  unbraided,  like  a  veil Other  women  might  be  more  com- 
manding, more  versatile,  more  acute,  but  I  never  saw  one  so  exquisitely  feminine. 
....  She  had  a  passive  temper,  but  decided  tastes  ;  her  strength  and  her  weakness 
alike  lay  in  her  affections.  Her  voice  was  a  sad,  sweet  melody;  her  gladness  was 
like  a  burst  of  sunlight ;  and  if,  in  her  depression,  she  resembled  night,  it  was  night 
bearing  the  stars." 

In  the  frequent  conversations  I  have  had  with  Miss  Jewsbury  relative  to  her 
beloved  friend,  she  could  never  speak  of  her  without  intense  enthusiasm — a  fervour 
that  has  often  brought  tears  into  her  eyes. 

The  portrait  that  heads  this  Memory  is  by  an  American  artist,  West,  who  painted 
it  in  1828.     It  was  to  this  portrait  she  wrote  some  lines,  ending  thus  : — 

"  Yet  look  thou  still  serenely  on, 
And  if  sweet  friends  there  be, 
That  when  my  song  and  soul  are  gone 

Shall  seek  my  form  in  thee, 
Tell  them  of  one  for  whom  'twas  best 
To  flee  away  and  be  at  rest." 

The  abundant  offspring  of  her  high  and  holy  mind — the  imperishable  outpourings 
of  her  pure  and  generous  heart — are  the  property  of  the  world.  They  have  been 
translated  into  every  language  of  civilised  man.  Those  who  would  teach  resignation, 
meekness,  truth,  virtue,  piety,  resort  to  her  poems  as  lessons  attractive,  impressive, 
and  permanent,  and  know  that  in  every  line  she  wrote  she  was  discharging  the 
divinist  duty  of  the  poet. 

From  the  period — in  childhood  almost — when  she  published  a  collection  of 
"  Juvenile  Poems,"  nearly  to  her  close  of  life,  she  had  sent  forth  volume  after 
volume,  each  surpassing  the  other  in  sweetness  and  in  power.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
intellectual  mine  was  inexhaustible,  and  perhaps  her  latest  productions  will  be  con- 
sidered her  best. 

I  may  with  propriety  introduce  here  some  recollections  of  the  three  friends  to 
whom  she  was  most  attached,  and  who  have  done  justice  to  her  memory — Mrs. 
Lawrence,  her  sweet  sister  Mrs.  Owen,  and  Mary  Jane  Jewsbury — with  two  of 
whom  we  had  the  privilege  to  be  personally  acquainted. 

Her  sister — whom  it  was  our  happy  chance  to  know,  meeting  her  often  at  the 
house  of  Mrs.  Hemans'  eldest  son,  George  Willoughby — was  a  woman  rarely  gifted, 
most  amiable,  and  most  estimable.  When  she  wrote  the  life  of  Mrs.  Hemans  she 
was  the  wife  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hughes  ;  and  by  that  name  she  is  chiefly  known.  Some 
years  after  his  death  she  married  the  Rev.  W.  Hicks  Owen,  M.A.,  Senior  Vicar  of  St. 
Asaph  and  Vicar  of  Tremeirchion,  Rural  Dean.     With  that  most  excellent  clergyman 


MRS.   HEMANS. 


371 


she  enjoyed  sixteen  years  of  happiness,  unbroken  except  by  occasional  visitations  of 
ill-health.  She  died  in  1858,  and  sleeps  in  the  quiet  graveyard  of  the  little  church  of 
Tremeirchion,  among  the  hills  that  surround  the  valley  through  which  runs  the 
Clwyd — that 

"  Cambrian  river,  with  slow  music  gliding 
By  pastoral  hills,  old  woods,  and  ruined  towers," 

beside  the  banks  of  which  the  sisters  had  passed  nearly  the  whole  of  their  useful,  but 
tranquil  and  uneventful,  lives. 


THE   CHUKCH   OF  TEBMBIECHION. 


All  to  whom  she  was  known — and  they  were  many — will  bear  witness  to  the  truth 
of  this  inscription,  placed  on  a  tablet  underneath  the  memorial  window  of  the  church 
in  which  rest  her  remains  : — 

"This  Window  was  erected  by  many  and  attached  friends,  to  the  glory  of  God,  and  in 
affectionate  remembrance  of  Harriet  Mary  Owen,  who  departed  this  life  14th  March,  1858.  She 
was  the  wife  of  the  Rev.  W.  H.  Owen,  vicar  of  this  parish,  and  was  sister  of  Felicia  Hemans, 
many  of  whose  lyrics  she  set  to  music.  She  was  a  woman  of  great  intellectual  endowments,  of 
deep  and  varied  reading,  a  good  linguist,  and  an  accomplished  musician.  With  these  high  quahties 
was  combined  the  most  practical  good  sense  in  the  common  things  of  every-day  life.  A  gentle  and 
considerate  mistress,  and  one  who  '  looked  well  to  the  ways  of  her  household.'  c  ^  e    v 

"  She  had  so  disciplined  her  temper,  that  no  provocation  caused  an  impatient  or  fretful  feeling. 
Very  pitiful  and  courteous,  but  gifted  with  a  brave  and  independent  spirit,  which  unhesitatingly- 
marked  its  abhorrence  of  all  that  was  base  and  dishonourable.  For  sixteen  years  she  fulfilled 
indefatigably  all  the  duties  of  a  country  clergyman's  wife,  and  was  unceasingly  occupied  in 
furthering  deeds  of  charity  and  loving-kindness.  In  this  course,  even  when  weighed  down  by 
extreme  bodily  anguish,  she  steadfastly  persevered  to  the  very  last.  In  joy  and  in  sorrow,  in 
prosperity  and  in  adversity,  she  presented  to  those  around  her,  and  who  knew  her  best,  a  bright 
example  of  the  Christian  graces,  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity." 

B    B  2 


1 


372  MEMORIES. 


Mes.  Lawrence,  whose  "  Kecollections  of  Mrs.  Hemans  "  I  have  quoted  in  this 
Memory,  was  one  of  the  most  beloved  of  her  friends.  That  accomplished  lady  lived 
in  a  great  mansion  near  the  humble  dwelling  of  the  poet,  to  whom  her  doors  were 
ever  open  in  wide  welcome.  Her  residence  was  at  Mosley  Hall,  near  Liverpool. 
Her  richly-cultivated  mind  enabled  her  fully  to  appreciate  the  genius  of  her  neighbour, 
whom  she  loved  with  intense  affection,  and  it  is  a  pleasant  task  'to  associate  their 
honoured  names. 


MAEY  JANE   JEWSBUEY. 


Theee  was  another  whose  close  intimacy  with  Mrs.  Hemans  did  honour  to  both — 
Maky  Jane  Jewsbury,  the  much  elder  sister  of  the  lady  whose  works  are  now  before 
the  world,  and  who  has  achieved  high  repute. 

Mary  Jane  Jewsbury  was  born  at  Measham,  near  Ashby-de-la-Zouch,  in  the  year 
1800.  She  published  several  valuable  books  in  poetry  and  prose,  obtaining  celebrity 
chiefly  under  the  signature  of  M.  J.  J.  She  married,  in  1832,  the  Rev.  W.  K.  Fletcher, 
one  of  the  chaplains  of  the  East  India  Company,  and  died  of  cholera  on  the  way 
to  Poonah,  on  the  4th  of  October,  1833. 

"  She  died,"  writes  Lfetitia  Landon  (who  met  her  first  at  our  house),  "  too  soon. 
What  noble  aspirings,  what  generous  enthusiasm,  what  kindly  emotions,  went  down 
to  the  grave  with  her  unfulfilled  destiny  !  "  "  She  was,"  wrote  Mrs.  Hemans, 
"  taken  away  in  the  very  prime  of  her  intellectual  life,  when  every  moment  seemed 
fraught  with  new  treasures  of  knowledge  and  power." 

Mrs.  Hemans  wore  mourning  for  her  ;  Wordsworth  grieved  for  her  loss  as  that 
of  a  shining  light  gone  out ;  and  thus  Professor  Wilson  refers  to  her  in  the  ' '  Noctes  : " 
— "  I  saw  her  once  ;  it  was  but  a  momentary  glance  among  the  mountains,  mounted 
on  a  pretty  pony,  in  a  pretty  rural  straw  hat,  and  pretty  rural  riding-habit,  with  the 
sunshine  of  a  cloudless  heaven  blended  in  her  countenance  with  that  of  her  own  cloud- 
less soul.  The  young  author  of  '  Phantasmagoria '  rode  smilingly  along  a  beautiful 
vale  with  the  illustrious  Wordsworth,  whom  she  venerates,  pacing  in  his  poetical  way 
at  her  side,  and  pouring  out  poetry  in  that  glorious  recitative  of  his,  till  the  vale  was 
overflowing  with  the  sound." 

We  knew  her  intimately,  and  esteemed  her  much.  She  was  our  guest  for  a  time 
not  long  before  her  marriage,  which  took  place  in  the  little  church  of  Penegoes — the 
officiating  clergyman  being  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hughes,  the  husband  of  Mrs.  Hemans'  sister, 
and  the  rector  of  that  parish. 

I  have  a  letter  written  to  me  in  1834  by  a  lady  who  was  for  a  time  Miss  Jewsbury's 
instructor.  It  gives  so  interesting  a  sketch  of  the  early  progress  of  her  mind,  that  I 
copy  some  passages  from  it : — 

"  I  found  her  rather  backward  as  to  solid  information,  and  as  to  the  -well  grounding  and 
disciplining  of  the  mind  for  study,  or  for  accuracy  of  reflection  or  discriminating  judgment,  but 
the  imaginative  and  inventive  powers  lively,  and,  as  I  afterwards  learned  from  herself,  in  continual 


MARY  JANE  JEWSBURY.  373 


exercise ;  for,  tinkaown  to  her  parents,  she  used  to  sit  up  in  her  chamber  in  light  evenings  or  early- 
mornings  to  indulge  in  reveries,  and  in  compositions  of  a  kind  to  give  scope  for  those  qualities. 
Among  these,  I  believe,  were  a  few  small  poems,  the  fragment  of  a  play,  and  one  or  two  short 
sketches  oi  tales  or  novels.  By  this  habit  she  rather  injured  her  health,  and  enfeebled  the  powers 
ot  her  mind  ;  but,  being  soon  convinced  of  her  error  after  she  had  communicated  the  circumstance 
10  me,  I  believe  she  entirely  discontinued  the  practice,  and  never  rose  before  five  or  six  in  the 
morning.  For  a  considerable  time  the  patient  application  of  her  mind  to  the  quiet  matter-of-fact 
studies  of  grammar,  right  reasoning,  and  history  was  irksome  to  her;  but  her  good  sense  and 
desire  for  improvement  convinced  her  of  the  necessity,  and  she  certainly  used  every  exertion  to 
compel  her  mind  to  forego  its  appetite  for  high-seasoned  and  effervescing  aliment,  if  I  may  so 
term  it.  But  the  main  development  of  her  intellectual  powers  took  place  after  her  parents  left"  the 
neighbourhood. ' ' 

Mrs.  Owen  writes  of  the  friends,  Mrs.  Hemans  and  Miss  Jewsbury : — "  boon  a 
feeling  of  warm  interest  and  thorough  understanding  sprang  up  between  two  minds 
so  rarely  gifted,  and  both  so  intent  upon  consecrating  their  gifts  to  the  highest  and 
holiest  purposes." 

In  one  of  her  letters  to  Mrs.  Hall,  Miss  Jewsbury  says,  "I  am  melancholy  by 
nature  ;  cheerful  on  principle."  A  sense  of  duty  was  certainly  strong  in  her  ;  and  if 
her  natural  disposition  was  sombre,  she  did  much  to  show  she  could  be  cheerful,  con- 
versing freely  and  well,  and  manifesting  earnest  sympathy  with  the  requirements  of 
her  companions  and  the  desires  of  her  friends. 

This  is  Mrs.  Hall's  Memory  of  Mary  Jane  Jewsbury  : — She  was  one  of  those  who 
are  called  upon  to  give  out  knowledge  before  the  fountain  is  sufficiently  supplied. 
She  says,  indeed,  she  became  a  writer  almost  as  soon  as  she  became  a  reader,  "  sacri- 
ficing," as  she  writes,  "  the  palm-tree  to  obtain  a  single  draught  of  wine,"  grieving 
she  had  done  nothing  worthy  to  live,  but  purposing  great  things  in  the  hereafter  that 
did  not  come  to  her  on  earth.  Her  career  was,  in  truth,  barely  commenced  when  it 
was  closed. 

In  person  Miss  Jewsbury  was  tall  and  thin  ;  her  complexion  was  sallow,  and  her 
hair  dark — almost  black ;  her  eyes,  of  a  deep  brown,  were  bright  and  penetrating  ; 
her  brow  was  full ;  her  mouth  large,  certainly  not  handsome,  but  expressive  ;  her 
voice  in  speaking  clear  and  distinct ;  her  laugh  cheerful ;  and  her  conversational 
powers  good.  She  said  many  things  worth  remembering  without  being  pedantic,  and 
was  very  ready  at  repartee.  She  had  been  much  feted  and  petted  in  the  country  ; 
and  the  friend  of  Wordsworth  and  Mrs.  Hemans  might  have  looked  for  pardon  if  she 
were  exacting  of  more  attention  than  was  perhaps  justly  her  due.  But  "  the  set  " 
with  which  she  mixed  in  London  were  the  lamps  of  London  society.  Very 
difi'erent  it  was  from  that  to  which  she  had  been  accustomed,  and  where,  no  doubt, 
she  was  an  oracle.  She  never  relished  London  Society.  It  was  too  diffused, 
too  insincere,  to  satisfy  one  who  had  communed  much  with  Nature,  and  was  not 
over-inclined  to  admit  the  excellence  of  any  school  but  that  in  which  she  herself  had 
graduated.  Yet  "  socially,"  no  doubt,  London  did  her  a  great  deal  of  good,  without 
bating-  an  iota  of  her  high  principles.  She  became  more  tolerant,  and  more  inclined 
to  listen,  even  if  she  did  not  agree  with  the  opinions  of  others.  She  had  learned 
from  Wordsworth  to  take  pains  with  whatever  she  did,  and  told  us  that  one  morning, 
while  staying  with  the  poet,  she  brought  him  down  a  sonnet  on  which  she  considered 
she  had  bestowed  much  time.     "  There,  Mr.  Wordsworth,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  have 


374  MEMORIES. 


been  six  hours  over  that  sonnet !"     The  great  master  took  it  from  her,  and  rephed, 
"Young  lady,  I  should  have  been  six  weeks  !" 

While  Miss  Jewsbury  lived,  she  did  well ;  but  with  her  vigorous  mind,  her  desire 
to  excel,  her  continued  reading,  and  her  habit,  not  only  of  thinking  over  what  she 
read,  but  of  weighing  and  balancing  every  incident  or  suggestion,  if  she  had  been 
longer  on  earth,  she  would  have  far  surpassed  any  of  her  earlier  works,  and  bequeathed 
an  imperishable  name  to  her  country. 


ANNA   JAMESON. 


We  knew  Mrs.  Jameson  early  in  her  career,*  and  were  among  her  acquaintances  when 
it  was  drawing  to  a  close  ;  yet  she  was  by  no  means  aged,  not  above  threescore  years 
old,  when  her  useful  and  active  life  here  was  over. 

There  was  perpetual  gloom  above  and  about  her,  although  she  had  a  large  share 
of  fame,  was  never  embarrassed  in  circumstances,  was  the  circle  round  which  rallied 
many  friends,  some  of  whom  were  of  rank,  others  rich  in  high  intellectual  posses- 
sions, and  all,  more  or  less,  such  as  any  man  or  woman  might  be  proud  to  know. 

She  was  a  wedded  wife  for  nearly  thirty  years  ;  yet  she  may  be  said  to  have  had 
no  husband,  for,  with  some  brief  intermissions,  she  lived  apart  from  him  all  that  time. 
Why  they  were  separated  few  knew ;  but  it  was  a  secret  that  dulled  her  life.  Once 
she  joined  him  in  Canada,  soon  to  return  without  him  ;  and  once  they  were  together 
for  a  brief  while  in  London,  when  she  introduced  him  to  us.  He  was  handsome  in 
person,  seemed  very  amiable  in  disposition,  was  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman,  and  held 
high  appointments  in  the  colony,  having  been  Attorney-General  and  Speaker  of  the 
House  of  Assembly. 

It  was  a  mystery  then,  and  is  now,  by  what  evil  they  were  put  asunder ;  for 
although  Mrs.  Jameson  may  have  been  of  a  hard,  and  not  of  a  genial,  nature,  and 
her  temper  was,  perhaps,  "  incompatible,"  she  had  many  rare  qualities  of  mind,  must 
have  been  a  delightful  companion,  and  was  lai'gely  gifted  with  personal  attractions. 
I  always  thought  her  handsome,  although  her  hair  was  red,  and  her  blue  eyes  were 
eager  rather  than  tender.  Her  features  were  decidedly  good,  and  her  form,  though 
"  plump,"  was  finely  modelled.  Altogether  she  was  such  a  woman  as  a  man  might 
have  loved  to  adoration. 

Anna  Murphy  was  inducted  into  love  of  art  from  her  childhood.  Her  father  was 
an  artist,  and  held  the  post  of  miniature-painter  to  the  Princess  Charlotte.  His 
affairs  became  embarrassed  mainly,  I  believe,  in  consequence  of  his  failure  to  dispose 
of  a  series  of  pictures  he  had  executed  of  the  beauties  of  Charles  II. — the  renowned 
works  of  Lely  at  Hampton  Court.f  They  were  painted  by  command  of  the  Princess; 
but  she  died  before  they  were  finished,  and  they  were  left  on  his  hands. 

*  Early  in  life  she  was  a  governess  in  a  family  of  the  name  of  EoUs,  with  whom  she  travelled  into  Italy,  where 
she  laid  the  scene  of  her  book—"  The  Diary  of  an  Ennuyee."  It  was  aminglmg  of  fact  with  fiction,  detailing  certain 
incidents  of  a  breaking  heart  which  were  entirely  imaginaiy.    It  was  published  in  1826. 

+  Some  years  afterwards  engravings  from  this  series  were  published;  with  letter-press,  by  Mrs.  Jameson— a 
delicate  and  difficult  work  for  a  woman  to  do  ;  yet  she  emerged  from  the  trial  without  soihng  her  white  garments. 


ANNA   JAMESON.  375 


Her  first  book,  the  "  Diary  of  an  Ennuyee,"  became  suddenly  famous  ;  it  was  the 
groundwork  of  her  reputation.  She  wrote  better  books  afterwards  :  her  contributions 
to  art-literature  came  at  a  good  time,  were  very  useful,  and  will  be  always  of  much 
value.* 

I  do  not  know  where  she  was  born  :  her  birth  must  have  dated  towards  the  end 
of  the  last  century.  Her  father  was  an  Irishman,  and  I  believe  she  was  of  Irish 
birth.  It  was  a  subject,  however,  which  she  seemed  desirous  to  ignore.!  I  cannot 
call  to  mind  that  she  ever  spoke  on  the  subject  of  Ireland.  She  must  have  left  that 
country  when  very  young,  and  probably  had  no  remembrance  of  it,  and  no  tie  to 
unite  her  with  it,  and  certainly  visited  it  rarely.  She  was  very  un -Irish  in  her 
character,  manners,  mind,  and  habits. 

Not  long  before  her  death — in  1860 — she  became  a  partisan  of  the  women  who 
advocate  "  Women's  Rights,"  and  delivered  a  lecture  on  the  subject.  I  regret  that 
we  did  not  hear  it,  for  she  gave  us  an  invitation  to  do  so.  She  did  not,  indeed,  go  so 
far  as  several  of  her  associates  have  since  gone,  but  her  ideas  were  vague  and 
visionary.  She  had,  she  said,  "  no  desire  to  free  her  sex  from  the  high  duties  to 
Avhich  they  were  born,  or  the  exercise  of  virtues  on  which  the  whole  frame  of  social 
life  may  be  said  to  depend,  but  from  such  trammels  and  disabilities,  be  they  legal  or 
conventional,  as  are  manifestly  injurious,  shutting  them  out  from  the  means  of  redress 
Avhen  they  are  oppressed,  or  from  the  means  of  honest  subsistence  when  they  are 
destitute." 

I  do  not  believe  Mrs.  Jameson  ever  contemplated  the  lengths  to  which  her  suc- 
cessors have  gone  in  their  advocacy  of  the  new  Constitution  for  women  ;  but  she 
would  not  have  been  accepted  as  a  guiding  authority  if  she  had.  Of  the  cares  and 
duties  of  maternity  she  knew  nothing ;  while  those  of  a  wife  she  was  unable  to  dis- 
charge. I  by  no  means  infer  that  she  was  disqualified  by  nature  for  either ;  on  the 
contrary,  I  consider  she  was  well  fitted  for  both  ;  but  I  believe  that  if  she  had  been 
a  mother,  or,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  term,  a  wife,  she  would  not  have  been 
found  in  the  ranks  of  the  "  strong-minded." 

Just  so,  I  think,  it  was  with  Miss  Mitford,  although  she  never  joined  the  army  of 
— Martyrs.  Indeed,  when  she  was  in  her  prime,  there  was  no  thought  of  a  struggle 
for  "  equality,"  and  female  authors  were  contented  with  the  "  slavery"  that  made 
them  seek  to  be  the  helpmates  and  not  the  "  masters"  of  men. 

*  Some  of  her  best  aids  to  this  class  of  literature  she  published  in  the  Art-Journal. 

■t  In  one  of  her  letters  to  Mrs.  Hall  she  writes— from  MuUingar  -"You  will  not  ask  me  what  I  think  about  this 
most  wretched  country  of  ours.  I  suppose  I  shall  subside  in  time,  and  be  able  to  look  things  steadily  in  the  face  ; 
at  present  all  my  impressions  are  of  pain  and  discord."  She  was  a  good  letter- writer.  We  have  retained  many  of 
her  letters  ;  yet  I  do  not  find  in  them  aught  that  it  would  be  worth  while  to  publish.  None  of  them  give  any 
insight  into  her  life's  history. 


376  MEMORIES. 


JULIA  PAEDOE. 

Although  Miss  Paedoe  did  not  occupy  a  very  prominent  position  in  letters,  slie  was 
much  before  the  pubHc  for  a  period  of  thirty  years  between  her  first  appearance  and 
her  death  in  1862. 

We  knew  her  at  the  commencement  of  her  career,  when  she  had  just  returned 
from  Portugal,  where  she  had  accompanied  her  father,  who  was  called  "  Major 
Pardee,"  and  had  a  command  in  the  "  Waggon  Train,"  I  believe.  That  was  in  1826. 
She  was  then  a  fairy-footed,  fair-haired,  laughing,  sunny  "girl,"  who  had  resolved 
upon  remaining  a  girl  as  long  as  she  could ;  who  would  never  admit  her  age  to  have 
passed  that  of  youth  ;  and  who  had  ever  a  terrible  dread  of  being  considered  an  "  old 
maid."  Some  thirty  years  after  the  time  of  which  I  speak  flowers  were  mingled  with 
her  still  abundant  locks,  and  she  strove  to  be  as  "nimble"  and  vivacious  as  she 
actually  was  at  sweet  eighteen. 

I  would  not,  however,  say  a  word  to  her  disparagement.  If  she  desired  to  appear 
young  when  she  was  really  old,  it  was  her  only  weakness  ;  for  she  was  a  good 
daughter  and  a  generous  friend  ;  a  hard  worker,  too,  who  had  well  earned  the  Crown 
pension  which  brightened  and  gladdened  the  later  years  of  her  life.  Happily  it  was 
so  ;  for  with  time  the  mine  had  been  exhausted.  The  "  City  of  the  Sultan  "  is  the 
only  one  of  her  many  books  that  is  now  "  asked  for  : "  and  even  that  has  but  a  repu- 
tation of  the  secondary  class. 


WILLIAM   LISLE  BOWLES. 


OWLES,  "  of  an  ancient  family  in  the  county  of  Wilts,"  was 
born  in  the  village  of  King's  Sutton,  in  Northamptonshire, 
of  which  his  father,  William  Thomas  Bowles,  was  vicar. 
The  day  of  his  birth  was  the  24th  of  September,  1762.  At 
least,  I  presume  it  to  be  so,  for  it  is  so  given  in  a  letter  I 
received  from  him,  though  he  had  struck  his  pen  through 
the  date  after  it  was  written.  "  His  father,"  he  observes, 
"  was  the  only  son  of  the  Eev.  Dr.  Bowles,  of  Brackley, 
who  married  Elizabeth  Lisle,  a  descendant  of  the  ancient 
family  of  the  Lisles  of  Northumberland  ;  the  son  (William 
Thomas)  marrying,  1760,  Bridget,  eldest  daughter  of  the  well-known 
Dr.  Richard  Grey,  Chaplain  to  Nathanael  Crew,  Bishop  of  Durham. 
The  Rev.  William  Lisle  Bowles  was  the  eldest  son  of  that  marriage.  He 
was  educated  at  Winchester,  and  removed  to  Oxford,  where  he  gained  a 
prize  for  Latin  verse,  having  been  entered  a  scholar  of  Trinity.  He  took 
his  degree  in  1792,  entered  into  holy  orders,  became  a  curate  in  Wiltshire,  and 
obtained,  in  1804,  a  prebend's  stall,  and,  in  1805,  the  living  of  Bremhill,  Wiltshire," 
where  he  resided  until  he  resigned  it  in  1845,  after  forty  years'  faithful  service, 
during  which  long  period  he  had  watched  zealously  over  the  spiritual  and  worldly 
interests  of  his  flock.  His  memory  is  venerated  there  to  this  da5^  He  retired  from 
Bremhill  to  Salisbury,  where  he  died  on  the  6th  of  April,  1850,  being  a  Canon 
Residentiary  of  that  cathedral.  He  had  then  reached  the  patriarchal  age  of  fourscore 
and  eight  years — a  good  man  and  a  good  clergyman. 

Not  long  ago  I  stood  beside  his  grave,  and  offered  homage  to  his  memory.  His 
remains  are  covered  by  a  plain  stone  :  he  was  not  "  honoured  "  with  a  monument, 
but  he  erected  monuments  to  record  the  virtues  of  two  of  his  predecessors  within  the 
walls  of  the  venerable  and  very  beautiful  cathedral.  It  was  not  difficult  to  fancy  the 
old  man  treading  these  lofty  and  graceful  aisles  to  and  fro,  at  morning,  noon,  and 
night,  in  contemplation,  with  praise  and  gratitude  ;  for  it  was  the  "  home"  in  which 
he  was  always  most  happy. 

In  a  note  to  one  of  his  poems  he  acknowledges  his  debt  to  the  Dean  atd  Chapter 
of  Salisbury  for  "  preferment  in  a  cathedral,  where  I  might  close  my  days  to  what  I, 
through  life,  most  loved — cathedral  harmony." 

In  early  youth  he  was  innocent  enough  to  apply  to  a  printer  at  Bath  to  know  if 
"  he  would  give  anything  for  fourteen  sonnets,"  to  be  published  "  with  or  without  a 


378 


MEMORIES. 


name."  The  purchase  was  decHned  ;  so  the  simple  man,  who  fancied  he  might  thus 
pay  the  largest  debt  he  ever  owed  (£70),  "  thought  no  more  of  getting  rich  by  poetry." 
Yet  they  were  afterwards  published  (in  1793),  and  sold  well — first  an  edition  of  one 
hundred  copies,  then  another  of  five  hundred  copies,  and  then  another  of  seven 
hundred  and  fifty  copies. 

There  came  a  young  man  into  the  printer's  shop  who  "  spoke  in  high  commenda- 
tion "  of  that  volume.  Forty  years  afterwards,  Bowles  discovered  that  the  young 
man  was  Robert  Southey  ;  and  therefore,  in  1837,  another  edition  of  the  sonnets 
was  dedicated  to  Robert  Southey,  "  who  has  exhibited  in  his  prose  works,  as  in  his 
life,  the  purity  and  virtues  of  Addison  and  Locke,  and  in  his  poetry  the  imagination 
and  soul  of  Spenser."     For  more  than  sixty  years  he  was  continually  writing,  and 


.rh4f.  ^ 


THE   VICARAGE   AT   BKEMHILL. 


has  left  poems  which,  if  they  do  not  place  him  among  the  highest  of  the  poets,  give 
to  him  rank  more  than  respectable. 

At  the  outset  of  life's  journey  he  was  cheered  by  the  voice  of  a  generous  and 
sympathising  "brother."  Coleridge  speaks  of  himself  as  having  been  withdrawn 
from  several  perilous  errors  "  by  the  genial  influence  of  a  style  of  poetry  so  tender 
and  yet  so  manly,  so  natural  and  real,  and  yet  so  dignified  and  harmonious,"  as  the 
sonnets  of  Bowles,  and  thus  tenders  his  thanks  : — 

"  My  heart  has  thanked  thee,  Bowles,  for  these  soft  strains, 
Whose  sadness  soothes  me  like  the  murmuring 
Of  wild  bees  in  the  sunny  showers  of  spring." 

De  Quincey  states  that  so  powerfully  did  the  sonnets  of  Bowles  impress  the  poetic 


WILLIAM  LISLE  BOWLES. 


379 


sensibility  of  Coleridge,  that  he  made  forty  transcripts  of  them  with  his  own  pen  by 
way  of  presents  to  youthful  friends.  Coleridge  considered  Bowles  as  one  of  the  first 
of  our  English  poets  "  who  combined  natui'al  thoughts  with  natural  diction — the  first 
who  reconciled  the  heart  with  the  head." 

In  one  of  Lamb's  letters  to  Coleridge  he  thus  expresses  himself: — 

"  Coleridge,  I  love  you  for  dedicating  j-our  poetry  to  Bowles,  genius  of  the  sacred  fountain  of 
tears.  It  was  he  who  led  you  gently  by  the  hand  through  all  this  valley  of  weeping,  showed  you 
the  dark  green  yew-trees  and  the  mellow  shades,  where,  by  the  fall  of  waters,  you  might  indulge 
an  uncomplaining  melancholy,  a  delicious  regret  for  the  past,  or  weave  fine  visions  of  that  awful 
future," 

'When  all  the  vanities  of  life's  brief  day 
Oblivion's  hurrying  hand  hath  swept  away ; 
And  all  its  sorrows,  at  the  awful  blast 
Of  th'  archangels  trump,  are  but  as  shadows  past.' " 


THE   CHUKCH  AT   BREMHILL. 


That  is  no  slight  praise  from  two  such  men.  We  may  add  to  it  that  of  Southey, 
who  says  in  reference  to  one  of  the  poems  of  Bowles — "  St.  John  in  Patmos  " — "I 
should  have  known  it  to  be  yours  by  the  sweet  and  unsophisticated  style,  upon  which 
I  endeavoured,  now  almost  forty  years  ago,  to  form  my  own." 

Bowles  never  sought  rude  popularity — satisfied  with  inculcating  lessons  of  sound 
morality  in  "  dignified  and  harmonious  verse,"  and  to  lead  the  heart  to  virtue,  as  the 
chiefest  duty  of  the  Muse. 

His  poetical  works  are  many,  but  he  did  not  despise  prose.     His  "  Life  of  Ken  " 


38o  MEMORIES. 


1 


ranks  high  ;  but  he  is  in  this  way  chiefly  remembered  by  his  contest  with  Byron, 
Campbell,  and  others,  relative  to  the  claims  of  Pope  to  be  considered  a  poet  of  the 
first  order.     Byron's  line  is  familiar  to  all : — 

"  And  Pope,  whom.  Bowles  says  is  no  poet." 

Bowles  thus  refers  to  this  subject  in  one  of  his  letters  to  me,  dated  October  28th> 
1837.  "  I  never  said  '  Pope  was  no  poet.'  I  never  thought  so.  I  put  the  epistle 
to  Abelard  before  all  poems  of  the  kind,  ancient  or  modern.  The  '  Rape  of  the 
Lock,'  the  most  ingenious,  and  imaginative,  and  exquisite;  but  the  Ariel  is  inferior 
— how  inferior  ! — to  Shakspeare,  because  the  subject  would  not  admit  a  being 
employed  '  in  adding  furbelows  '  to  a  lady's  mantle  to  be  as  poetical  as  an  aerial 
being  singing — 

"  Where  the  bee  sucks," 

and  raising  the  storm.  The  question  was  ivilfuUy  hothered  by  blockheads,  and  no 
otherwise  was  the  question  evaded.     But  the  principles  are  eternal." 

"When  I  personally  knew  Bowles,  in  London  in  1835,  he  was  a  hale,  hearty  old 
man.  He  seemed  to  me  a  happy  blending  of  the  country  farmer  with  the  country 
clergyman  of  old  times,  and  recalled  the  portraitures  of  "parsons"  of  the  days  of 
Fielding  and  Smollett.  He  rarely  quitted  Bremhill.  Now  and  then  he  visited  the 
metropolis,  where  he  seemed  as  much  out  of  place  as  a  "  daisy  in  a  conservatory  " 
— that  was  his  own  simile  during  one  of  my  conversations  with  this  eccentric,  but 
benevolent,  clergyman.  Some  idea  may  be  formed  of  his  loneliness  amid  the  peopled 
solitude  of  London  by  anecdotes  related  to  me  by  the  wife  of  the  poet  Moore. 
Bowles  was  in  the  habit  of  daily  riding  through  a  country  turnpike  gate,  and  one 
day  he  presented  as  usual  his  twopence  to  the  gate-keeper.  "  What  is  that  for,  sir  ?" 
he  asked.  "For  my  horse,  of  course."  "But,  sir,  you  have  no  horse."  "Dear 
me  !"  exclaimed  the  astonished  poet ;  "  am  I  walking  ?  "  Mrs.  Moore  also  told  me 
that  Bowles  gave  her  a  Bible  as  a  birthday  present.  She  asked  him  to  write  her 
name  in  it;  he  did  so,  inscribing  it  to  her  as  a  gift — -from  the  Author.  "  I  never," 
said  he,  "  had  but  one  watch,  and  I  lost  it  the  very  first  day  I  wore  it."  Mrs.  Bowles 
whispered  to  me,  "  And  if  he  got  another  to-day  he  would  lose  it  as  quickly." 

I  met  not  long  ago,  near  Salisbury,  a  gentleman-farmer  who  had  been  one  of 
his  parishioners,  and  cherished  an  affectionate  remembrance  of  the  good  parson. 
He  told  me  one  story  of  him  that  is  worth  recording : — One  day  he  had  a  dinner- 
party ;  the  guests  were  kept  waiting  for  the  host ;  his  wife  went  up-stairs  to  see  by 
what  mischance  he  was  delayed.  She  found  him  in  a  sad  "taking,"  hunting  every- 
where for  a  silk  stocking  which  he  could  not  find.  After  due  and  minute  search 
Mrs.  Bowles  found  he  had  put  the  two  stockings  on  one  leg.  Once,  when  his  own 
house  was  pointed  out  to  him,  he  could  not  by  any  possibility  call  to  mind  who  lived 
there. 

This  constitutional  peculiarity  must  have  been  natural  to  him,  for  when  a  very 
child — ^just  seven  years  old — ("  the  child  is  father  of  the  man"),  while  accompanying 
his  parents  through  Bristol,  he  was  "  lost."  He  had  strayed  away.  There  was  a 
hunt  for  him  in  all  directions,  with  the  eager  questioning  of  his  frightened  mother, 


WILLIAM  LISLE  BOWLES. 


381 


"  Have  you  seen  a  little  boy  in  blue  jacket  and  boots  ?"  He  had  been  attracted  by 
the  sound  of  the  bells  of  Redcliff  Church,  and  was  found  tranquilly  seated  on  the 
ancient  steps  of  the  churchyard,  careless  of  the  crowd  around,  listening  in  delight 
and  wonder  to  the  peal  from  the  old  tower.  To  this  event  he  alludes  in  one  of  his 
after  poems,  when 

"  The  moumful  magic  of  their  mingled  chime 
First  woke  my  wondering  childhood  into  tears." 

Another  peculiarity  of  his  was  an  inveterate  tendency  to  give  away  his  chattels 
to  those  who  happened  casually  to  admire  them.  Mrs.  Bowles  was  compelled,  in 
consequence,  to  keep  a  watchful  eye  at  all  times  upon  his  proceedings  in  that  way, 


IN  THE   ViC  VUAOE   (.<  M.DEN,   BUEMHILL. 


and  is  said  to  have  controlled  his  simple-minded  irregularities  as  well  as  his  indis- 
criminate liberality. 

Of  his  eccentricities  many  anecdotes  are  told  in  the  neighbourhood  where  he 
resided  for  nearly  half  a  century.  All  of  them,  however,  are  simple,  harmless,  and 
exhibit  generous  sympathy.  He  was  loved  by  the  poor,  and  by  many  friends.  One 
of  the  most  acceptable  guests  at  Sloperton  was  the  poet  Bowles ;  and  Moore  says  of 
him,  "  What  with  his  genius,  his  blunders,  his  absences,  he  is  the  most  delightful  of 
all  existing  parsons  or  poets."  And  again,  "  What  an  odd  fellow  it  is,  and  how  mar- 
vellously, by  being  a  genius,  he  has  escaped  being  a  fool !"  And  thus  Southey  writes 
of  him  : — "  His  oddity,  his  untidiness,  his  simplicity,  his  benevolence,  his  fears,  and 
his  good-nature,  make  him  one  of  the  most  entertaining  and  extraordinary  characters 
I  ever  met  with." 


A  true  lover  of  Nature,  he  took  the  greatest  delight  in  ornamenting  the  beauti- 
fully-situated vicarage  gardens.  And  a  very  pleasing  place  it  v^ras,  altogether 
picturesque,  replete  with  quaint  surprises  and  fancies,  and  yet  entirely  devoid  of 
old-fashioned  formality.  It  afforded  him  high  gratification  to  entertain  his  friends 
in  these  grounds,  and  lead  them  along  its  labyrinthine  paths — here  to  a  sylvan  altar 
dedicated  to  friendship,  there  to  some  temple,  grotto,  or  sun-dial.  Thus  he  speaks 
of  one  of  these  garden  ti'eats  in  the  "  Little  Villager's  Verse  Book  " — a  small  volume 
of  very  sweet  hymns,  which  are,  I  believe,  well  known  in  many  village  school-rooms, 
and  cannot  be  too  well  known  : — "  A  root-house  fronts  us,  with  dark  boughs  branch- 
ing over  it.  Sit  down  in  that  old  carved  chair  :  if  I  cannot  welcome  illustrious 
visitors  in  such  consummate  verse  as  Pope,  I  may,  I  hope,  not  without  blameless 
pride,  tell  you,  reader,  that  in  this  chair  have  sat,  among  other  visitors,  Sir  Samuel 
Romilly,  Sir  George  Beaumont,  Sir  Humphry  Davy — poets  as  well  as  philosophers — 
Madame  de  Stael,  Rogers,  Moore,  Crabbe,  Southey,  &c." 

Having  discovered  a  huge  ancient  stone  cross  lying  neglected  half  buried  in  the 
churchyard,  he  had  it  placed  there,  so  as  to  be  visible  from  the  vicinage  of  the  root- 
house,  the  moral  of  which  he  indicated  by  inscribing  on  the  latter  this  couplet : — 

"  Dost  thou  lament  the  dead  and  motim  the  loss 
Of  many  friends  1    Oh,  think  upon  the  cross ! " 

The  steps  leading  to  this  root-house,  and  the  entrance  to  where  it  stood,  are  depicted 
in  the  accompanying  illustration ;  but,  unfortunately,  neither  root-house  nor  chair 
remains  to  give  point  to  deeply-interesting  memories  connected  with  the  spot. 

From  some  lines  that — according  to  the  work  I  have  quoted — were  inscribed  in 
another  part  of  the  very  charming  grounds  of  the  vicarage,  it  would  appear  as 
though  Mr.  Bowles  had  once  intended  to  be  buried  at  Bremhill,  instead  of  Salisbury 
Cathedral. 

"  There  rest  the  village  dead,  and  there,  too,  I 
(When  yonder  dial  points  the  hour)  must  lie. 
Look  round,  the  distant  prospect  is  displayed 
Like  life's  fair  landscape,  marked  with  light  and  shade. 
Stranger,  in  peace  pursue  thine  onward  road, 
And  ne'er  forget  thy  long  and  last  abode, 
Yet  keep  the  Christian's  hope  before  thine  eye, 
And  seek  the  bright  reversion  of  the  sky." 

Also,  bearing  on  the  same  point,  in  a  sermon  entitled  "  The  English  Village 
Church,"  preached  by  him  at  Bremhill,  April  20th,  1834,  are  to  be  found  these 
words  : — "  In  the  course  of  nature,  it  will  not  be  long  before  my  grey  hairs,  which 
have  lived  among  you  for  so  many  years,  will  be  brought  down,  I  hope  and  pray, 
in  peace.  My  last  abode  will  be  in  this  chancel,  where  all  the  young  are  now 
assembled,  and  who  will  remember  me.  I  would  not  wish  a  better  epitaph  than  the 
expression  of  a  poor  child,  on  the  departure  of  a  man  of  genius,  a  conscientious 
clergyman,  and  a  friend." 

In  a  note  Crabbe  is  mentioned  as  the  friend  alluded  to,  and  the  words  of  the 
child  were,  "  He  with  the  ivhite  head  will  go  up  in  pulpit  no  more!" 


JAMES   HOGG. 

HEN  James  Hogg,  the  Ettrick  Shepherd,  visited  London 
in  January,  1832,  he  produced  in  "  literary  circles  "  a  sen- 
sation almost  as  great  as  might  have  been  created  by  the 
removal  of  Ben  Nevis  to  Blackheath,  The  world  of  London 
was  idle  then,  and  the  incident  became  an  event. 

It  was  a  rare  and  curious  sight  to  see  the  Shepherd  feted 
^^^^^^^Wi^jgo     ^^  aristocratic  salons,  mingling  among  the  learned  and  polite 
ylk^vs^.^^^/^iy'L^     of  all  grades — clumsily  but  not  rudely.      He   was   rustic, 
without    being  coarse  ;    not   attempting  to   ape  the  refine- 
ment to  which  he  was   unused,  but  seeming  perfectly  aware  that  all  eyes 
were  upon  him,  and  accepting  admiration  as  a  right.* 

He  was  my  guest  several  times  during  that  period  of  unnatural  excite- 
ment, which  there  can  be  no  question  shortened  his  life  ;  and  at  my  house 
he  met  many  of  his  literary  contemporaries,  whom  he  might  not  otherwise 
have  known. 

*  In  society,  where,  as  I  have  intimated,  he  was  easy  and  self-possessed, 

because  natural,  his  glowing  and  kindly  countenance,  his  rousing  and  hearty  laugh. 


*  Hogg,  in  one  of  his  Lay  Sermons,  says,  "  For  upwards  of  twenty  years  I  have  mixed  with  all  classes  of  society, 
and  as  I  never  knew  to  which  I  belonged,  I  have  been  periectly  free  and  at  my  ease  with  them  all." 


384  MEMORIES. 

the  quaintness  of  his  remarks,  his  gentle  or  biting  satire,  the  continual  flow  of 
homely  wit,  the  rough,  but  perfectly  becoming  manner  in  which  he  sung  his  own 
Jacobite  songs,  all  gained  for  him  personally  the  golden  opinions  previously  accorded 
to  his  writings  ;  and  the  visit  of  James  Hogg  to  the  metropolis  was  not  a  failure, 
but  a  success. 

On  the  25th  of  January,  1832,  a  public  dinner  was  given  to  him  in  the  great 
hall  of  the  Freemasons'  Tavern ;  nominally  it  was  to  commemorate  the  birthday  of 
Eobert  Burns,  but  really  to  receive  the  Shepherd.  There  were  many  men  of  note 
present ;  among  others,  two  of  the  sons  of  Burns,  Lockhart,  Basil  Hall,  Allan 
Cunningham,  and  others  of  equal  or  lesser  note  ;  the  most  conspicuous  of  the  guests 
being  Mr.  Aiken,  then  Consul  at  Archangel,  to  whom  Burns  had,  half  a  century 
before,  addressed  his  famous  lines — the  "  Epistle  to  a  Young  Friend." 

The  dinner  had  been  ordered  for  two  hundred ;  but,  long  before  it  appeared  on 
the  table,  four  hundred  persons  had  assembled  to  partake  of  it.  It  will  be  easy  to 
conceive  the  terrible  confusion  that  ensued,  as  steward  after  steward  rushed  about 
the  room,  seizing  food  wherever  he  could  find  it,  and  bearing  it  ofi"  in  triumph  to 
the  empty  dishes  laid  before  his  friends,  over  which  it  became  necessary  for  him 
to  stand  guard,  while  the  wrathful  clamour  of  those  who  had  nothing  was  efi"ectually 
drowned  by  the  bagpipes — two  pipers  pacing  leisurely  round  the  hall.  It  was  no 
wonder,  therefore,  if  the  guests  were  indignant,  for  each  had  paid  twenty-five 
shillings  for  his  ticket  of  admission,  and  certainly  many  were  sent  hungry  away. 

Sir  John  Malcolm,  a  gallant  soldier,  from  "the  Border,"  who  had  gained  "  the 
bubble  reputation  "  in  the  East,  and  who  had  achieved  some  fame  as  an  author,  was 
in  the  chair. 

When  the  usual  toast  had  been  given,  the  toast  of  the  evening  was  announced ; 
but  the  toast-master  had  no  idea  that  a  guest  thus  honoured  was  nothing  more  than 
a  simple  shepherd,  and  consequently  conceived  he  was  doing  his  duty  best  when  to 
the  assembled  crowd  he  announced,  "  A  bumper  toast  to  the  health  of  Mister 
Shepherd/"  There  was  a  roar  throughout  the  building,  and  the  hero  of  the  day 
joined  in  the  laugh  as  heartily  as  the  guests. 

Up  rose  a  man,  hale  and  hearty  as  a  mountain  breeze,  fresh  as  a  branch  of  hill- 
side heather,  with  a  visage  unequivocally  Scotch,  high  cheek  bones,  a  sharp  and  clear 
grey  eye,  an  expansive  forehead,  sandy  hair,  and  with  ruddy  cheeks,  which  the  late 
nights  and  late  mornings  of  a  month  in  London  had  not  yet  sallowed.  His  form 
was  manly  and  muscular,  and  his  voice  strong  and  gladsome,  with  a  rich  Scottish 
accent,  which  he  probably,  on  that  occasion,  rather  heightened  than  depressed.  His 
appearance  that  evening  may  be  described  by  one  word,  and  that  word  purely 
English.     It  was  hearty  ! 

He  expressed  his  "  great  satisfaction  at  meeting  so  numerous  and  respectable  an 
assembly  — met  in  so  magnificent  an  edifice  for  such  an  object.  He  was  proud 
that  he  had  been  born  a  poet — proud  that  his  humble  name  should  have  been 
associated  with  that  of  his  mighty  predecessor  Burns.  That  indeed  was  fame,  and 
nobody,  henceforward,  would  venture  to  insinuate  that  he  had  not  acquired  some 
share  of  true  greatness  after  the  honour  which  had  been  conferred  upon  him  by  the 


JAMES  HOGG.  385 


literary  public  of  such  a  metropolis.  He  loved  literature  for  its  own  sake,  and  he 
gloried  in  his  connection  with  his  country.  The  Muse,  it  was  true,  had  found  him  a 
poor  shepherd,  and  a  poor  shepherd  he  still  remained  after  all,  but  in  his  cultivation 
of  poetry  he  was  influenced  by  far  prouder  motives  and  more  elevated  considerations, 
and  he  was  not  without  his  reward.  After  expatiating  on  his  literary  labours,  the 
Shepherd  concluded  by  repeating  his  thanks  for  the  favours  he  had  experienced, 
and  hoped  that  the  overflowings  of  a  grateful  heart  would  not  be  the  less 
acceptable  because  they  might  be  conveyed  in  '  an  uncouth  idiom  and  barbarous 
phraseology.'  "  * 

The  applause  that  followed  his  "  racy  "  remarks — a  brief  history  of  his  life — and 
his  expressions  of  wonder  at  finding  himself  where  he  was,  and  how  he  was,  might 
have  turned  a  stronger  brain  than  that  of  James  Hogg.f 

Hogg  has  given  us  an  autobiography,  from  his  birth  up  to  a  late — but  not  a  very 
late — period  of  his  life.     His  vanity  was  so  inartificial  as  to  be  absolutely  amusing ; 


y 


x^(.-yyU^ 


he  avowed,  and  seemed  proud  of  it,  as  one  of  his  natural  rights.  "I  like  to  write 
about  myself" — that  sentence  begins  his  Autobiography;  and  the  sensation  is  kept 
up  to  the  end.  Accordingly,  he  speaks  "fearlessly  and  unreservedly  out;"  but 
bating  his  belief  that  he  beat  Byron,  Scott,  and  Wordsworth  on  their  own  ground, 
and  that  he  originated  Blackwood's  Magazine,  enough  remains  to  exhibit  a  man  of 
great  natural  powers,  who  merits  the  high  place  he  obtained  in  the  Hterary  history 
of  his  age  and  country.  It  is,  indeed,  a  record  of  wonderful  triumphs  over  difficulties 
almost  without  parallel. 

He  stated  himself  to  have  been  born  on  the  25th  of  January,  1772  ;  but  the 


*  I  copy  these  passages  from  the  Times  of  January  26th,  1832.  .     ,      ,  .  4.i,„  ^.-kv^i- 

+  He  does  not  appear  to  have  written  much  in  reference  to  his  staym  London.  A  passage  on  the  object, 
however,  occurs  in  one  of  his  Lav  Sermons  (to  which  I  shall  refer  presently)  that  may  be  worth  quoting  :—  i  must 
always  regard  the  society  of  Lon(ion  as  the  pink  of  what  I  have  seen  in  the  world.  I  met  most  o±  the  literary  ladies, 
and  confess  that  I  liked  them  better  than  the  blue  stockings  of  Edinburgh.  Their  general  information  is  not 
superior  to  that  of  their  northern  sisters ;  perhaps  it  may  be  said  that  it  is  less  determined ;  but  then  tney  never 

assume  so  much Among  the  nobility  and  gentry  1  felt  myself  most  at  home,  and  most  at  my  ease,     ihere 

was  no  straining  for  superiority  there The  impression  left  on  my  mind  by  nungling  with  the  fai-st  society  or 

London  is  that  of  perfection,  and  what  I  would  just  wish  society  to  be."— ioy  Sermons  on  Good  Breeding. 


386 


MEMORIES. 


parish  register  gives  the  date  of  his  birth — ^December  9th,  1770.  There  is,  conse- 
quently, a  confusion  as  to  the  actual  time,  as  there  is  about  the  actual  place,  some 
according  the  honour  to  "  Ettrick  Hall,"  others  to  "  Ettrick  House,"  each  of  which, 
notwithstanding  its  high-sounding  title,  was  a  humble  cottage  not  far  removed  from 
a  hut.  The  unpoetic  name,  Hogg,  which  he  was  always  better  pleased  to  exchange 
for  that  of  the  "  Ettrick  Shepherd,"  is  said  to  have  been  derived  from  a  far-away 
ancestor — a  pirate,  or  a  sea-king — "  one  Haug  of  Norway."  He  was  born  a  shep- 
herd, of  a  race  of  shepherds,  the  youngest  of  four  sons.  His  father  was  in  no  way 
remarkable ;  *   but,  as  with   all  men    of   intellectual   power,   he   inherited  mental 


\ 


THE   BIUTHPLACE  OF  JAMES   HOGG. 


strength  from  his  mother,  Margaret  Laidlaw,  "■  a  pious,  though  uneducated,  woman, 
who  loved  her  husband,  her  children,  and  her  Bible.  Her  memory  was  stored  with 
Border-ballads ;  she  was  a  firm  believer  in  kelpies,  brownies,  and  others  of  the  good 
people,"  stories  concerning  which  from  his  earliest  infancy  she  poured  into  the 
greedy  ears  of  her  son.     They  were  the  seed  that  bore  the  fruit. 

He  had  a  few  months'  schooling — the  school-house  being  close  to  his   cottage 
door.     At  seven  years  old,  however,  it  was  needful  that  he  should  do  work ;  and  he 


shepherd 


In  1814,  Wordsworth,  dTiring  his  visit  to  Scotland,  had  "refreshment"  at  the  cottage  of  HoRg's  father  "a 
3rd,  a  fine  old  man,  more  than  eighty  years  of  age."  ' 


was  hired  by  a  neighbouring  farmer,  his  half-year's  wage  being  "  one  ewe  lamb  and 
a  pair  of  shoes."  '^' 

From  his  childhood  he  had  a  perpetual  struggle  with  untoward  fate  :  "  chill 
penury  repressed  his  noble  rage "  from  his  birth  almost  to  his  death.  As  his 
biographer  writes,  "  He  was  always  in  deep  waters,  where  nothing  was  above  the 
surface  but  the  head ;  yet  the  historian  of  his  singular  and  wayward  life  has  little  to 
say  to  his  discredit,  and  nothing  to  his  dishonour.  He  has  to  record  more  of  tempta- 
tions resisted  than  of  culpabilities  encouraged  ;  and  although  by  no  means  a  man  of 
regular  habits,  Hogg  never  so  far  yielded  to  dissipation  as  to  be  ignored  even  by  the 
very  scrupulous  among  his  countrymen.  Wayward,  indeed,  he  was.  He  quarrelltd 
with  his  true  friend,  Scott,  but  the  magnanimous  man  sought  reconciliation  with  his 
irritable  brother.  To  Wilson,  another  true  frend,  he  wrote  a  letter  which,  according 
to  his  own  admission,  was  "full  of  abusive  epithets."  With  all  the  publishers  he 
was  perpetually  at  war. 

In  judging  a  character,  regard  must  be  had  to  the  circumstances  under  which  it 
is  formed ;  and  Hogg  might  have  been  pardoned  by  posterity  if  he  had  fallen  far 
more  short  than  he  did  of  the  high  standard  which  it  is  perhaps  necessary  for  our 
teachers  to  set  up  ;  while  it  is  certain  that  his  voluminous  and  varied  writings  were 
designed  and  are  calculated  to  uphold  the  cause  of  Righteousness  and  Virtue. 

He  was  employed,  almost  from  infancy,  in  tending  sheep,  herding  cows — doing 
anything  that  a  very  child  could  do — and  ran  about  ill  clad,  bare-footed,  learning  from 
Nature,  and  Nature  only,  eating  scanty  meals  by  wayside  brooks,  and  drinking  fi'om 
some  crystal  stream  near  at  hand ;  serving  twelve  masters  before  he  had  reached  his 
fifteenth  year,  enduring  hunger  often,  suffering  much  from  over-toil,  sleeping  in 
stables  and  cow-houses,  associating  only  with  four-footed  beasts  over  which  he  kept 
watch  and  ward,  picking  up,  how  and  when  he  could,  a  little  learning ;  hearing  from 
many — from  his  mother  especially — the  old  ballad-songs  of  Scotland,  and  acquiring 
in  early  youth  the  cognomen  of  "  Jamie  the  Poeter ;"  writing  poems  as  he  tended  his 
unruly  flock ;  and  at  length  rising  out  of  the  mire  in  which  circumstances  seemed  to 
have  plunged  him,  to  become  notorious — nay,  famous — as  one  of  the  men  of  whom 
Scotland,  so  fertile  of  great  and  glorious  women  and  men,  is  rightly  and  justly  proud. 
These  are  the  eloquent  words  of  his  eloquent  countryman.  Professor  Wilson,  in 
reference  to  the  earlier  career  of  Hogg  : — 

"  He  passed  a  youth  of  poverty  and  hardship— but  it  was  the  youth  of  a  lonely  shepherd 
among  the  moat  beautiful  pastoral  valleys  in  the  world  ;  and  in  that  solitary  life  in  which  seasons 
of  spirit-stirring  activity  are  followed  by  seasons  of  contemplative  repose,  how  many  years 
passed  over  him  rich  in  impressions  of  sense  and  in  dreams  of  fancy  !  His  haunts  were  among 
scenes 

'  The  most  remote  and  inaccessible 
By  shepherds  trod.' 

And  living  for  years  in  solitude,  he  unconsciously  formed  friendships  with  the  springs,  the  brooks, 
the  caves,  the  hills,  and  with  all  the  more  fleeting  and  faithless  pageantry  of  the  sky,  that  to  him 

*  Scott,  writing  to  Byron,  says  of  Hogg,  "  Hogg  could  Uterally  neither  read  nor  write  tUl  a  very  late  period  of 
his  Ufe,  and  when  he  first  distinguished  himself  by  his  poetical  talent,  could  neither  speJl  nor  write  grammar  ;  ana 
Lockhart  states  that  he  had  "  taught  himself  to  wiite  by  copyiag  the  letters  of  a  prmted  book,  as  he  lay  watcnmg 
his  flock  by  the  Mil  side." 

C    C  2 


came  in  the  place  of  those  human  affections  from  whose  indulgence  he  was  debarred  by  the 
necessities  that  kept  him  aloof  from  the  cottage  fire,  and  up  among  the  mists  on  the  mountain- 
top To  feel  the  full  power  of  his  genius,  we  must  go  with  him 

'  Beyond  this  visible  diurnal  sphere,' 

and  walk  through  the  shadowy  world  of  the  imagination The  still  green  beauty  of  the  pastoral 

hills  and  vales  where  he  passed  his  youth  inspired  him  with  ever-brooding  visions  of  fairy-land— 
till,  as  he  lay  musing  in  his  lonely  shieling,  the  world  of  fantasy  seemed,  in  the  clear  depth  of  his 
imagination,  a  lovelier  reflection  of  that  of  nature,  like  the  hills  and  heavens  more  softly  shining 
in  the  waters  of  his  native  lake." 

In  1801,  a  chance  visit  to  Edinburgh,  in  charge  of  a  flock  of  sheep  for  sale,  led  to 
his  "engaging"  a  printer  to  print  sundry  of  his  poems.  They  did  not  find,  nor 
were  they  entitled  to  find,  fame  ;  and  he  continued  a  shepherd  until  another  and 
a  happier  "  chance  "  came  in  his  way. 

When  Scott  was  seeking  materials  for  his  "Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border" 
he  made  the  acquaintance  of  William  Laidlaw,  a  peasant  with  whom  he  contracted  an 
enduring  friendship.*  Hogg  had  been  Laidlaw's  father's  servant,  and  Laidlaw  knew 
his  enthusiasm  concerning  the  subject  of  Scott's  search.  He  brought  Scott  and 
Hogg  together,  being  especially  anxious  to  do  so  because  "  Jamie's  mother  "  had  "  by 
heart  "  many  old  Scottish  ballads.  Scott  found  a  brother-poet,  a  true  son  of  Nature 
and  Genius,  and  continued  to  befriend  him  to  the  close  of  his  life. 

Soon  after  "  auspicious  fate  "  had  thus  brought  him  into  connection  with  Scott, 
he  was  cheered  and  invigorated,  for  awhile,  by  the  sun  of  prosperity.  Subscribers 
to  his  "Mountain  Bard,"  and  a  sum  paid  to  him  for  what  he  calls  "  that  celebrated 
work,  Hogg  on  Sheep,"  made  him  so  suddenly  rich  (for  he  was  master  and  owner  of 
J6300)  that  he  "went  perfectly  mad,"  took  a  large  pasture  farm,  lost  all  his  money, 
and  was  again  as  poor  as  ever,  until,  in  1810,  he  wrapped  his  plaid  about  his 
shoulders,  and  marched  to  Edinburgh  to  become  a  man  of  letters  "  by  profession." 
The  wayward,  vain,  and  erratic  man  of  genius  encountered  more  than  the  usual 
impediments.  At  that  period  he  wrote  of  himself  that  he  was  "  a  common  shepherd, 
who  never  was  at  school,  who  went  to  service  at  seven  years  old,  and  could  neither 
read  nor  write  with  any  degree  of  accuracy  when  thirty  ;"  yet  who  had  "  set  up  for  a 
connoisseur  in  manners,  taste,  and  genius."  Thus  he  alludes  to  a  periodical  work, 
the  Spy,  of  which  he  was  for  a  time  the  editor. 

He  became,  therefore,  "  by  profession  a  man  of  letters."  Afterwards  he  pursued 
that  "profession"  through  many  varied  paths — writing  plays,  poems,  and  prose, 
getting  money  now  and  then,  by  fits  and  starts,  but,  on  the  whole,  "  doing  badly," 
and  obtaining  a  large  amount  of  popularity  with  an  infinitesimal  portion  of  actual 
gain. 

In  1814  he  was  presented  with  the  small  farm  of  "  Altrive  Lake,  in  the  wilds  of 
Yarrow,"  by  the  Duke  of  Buccleuch.  No  doubt  the  suggestion  came  from  Walter 
Scott ;  it  was  a  great  boon  to  Hogg,  for  "  it  gave  him  a  habitation  among  his  native 
woods  and  streams."     Here  he  built  a  cottage,  married,  took  a  large  farm  (Mount 

*  Miss  Jessie  Hogg,  the  poet's  daughter,  writes  to  me  (commenting  on  my  "Memory  ")  that  "  William  Laidlaw 
should  not  be  called  a  '  peasant.'    Neither  he  nor  his  relatives  that  we  know  about  were  of  that  class." 


JAMES  HOGG.  389 


Benger),  found  he  had  not  half  money  enough  to  stock  it,  and  gradually  drooped 
down,  until,  at  the  age  of  sixty,  he  had  "  not  a  sixpence  in  the  world."  * 

Yet,  on  the  whole,  he  led  a  happy  life.  "  Some  may  think,"  he  writes,  "  that  I 
must  have  worn  out  a  life  of  misery  and  wretchedness  ;  but  the  case  has  been  quite 
the  reverse.  I  never  knew  either  man  or  woman  who  has  been  so  uniformly  happy 
as  I  have  been  ;  which  has  been  partly  owing  to  a  good  constitution,  and  partly  to 
the  conviction  that  a  heavenly  gift,  conferring  the  powers  of  immortal  song,  was 
inherent  in  my  soul.  Indeed,  so  uniformly  smooth  and  happy  has  my  married  life 
been,  that,  on  a  retrospect,  I  cannot  distinguish  one  part  from  another,  save  by  some 
remarkably  good  days  of  fishing,  shooting,  and  curling  on  the  ice." 

I  have  great  pleasure  in  again  transcribing  a  few  passages  from  one  of  his  Lay 
Sermons  : — 

"  I  am  an  old  man,  and,  of  course,  my  sentiments  are  tliose  of  an  old  man ;  but  I  am  not  like 
one  of  those  crabbed  philosophers  who  rail  at  the  state  which  they  cannot  reach,  for,  in  sincerity 
of  heart,  I  believe  that  hitherto  no  man  has  enjoyed  a  greater  share  of  felicity  than  I  have.  It  is 
well  known  in  what  a  labyrinth  of  poverty  and  toil  my  life  has  been  spent,  but  I  never  repined, 
for  when  subjected  to  the  greatest  and  most  humiliating  disdain  and  reproaches,  I  always  rejoiced 
in  the  consciousness  that  I  did  not  deserve  them.  I  have  rejoiced  in  the  prosperity  of  my  friends, 
and  have  never  envied  any  man's  happiness.  I  have  never  intentionally  done  evil  to  any  living 
soul ;  and  knowing  how  little  pov^er  I  had  to  do  good  to  others,  I  never  missed  an  opportunity 
that  came  within  the  reach  of  my  capacity  to  do  it.  I  have  not  only  been  satisfied,  but  most 
thankful  to  the  Giver  of  all  good,  for  my  sublunary  blessings,  the  highest  of  all  for  a  grateful 
heart  that  enjoys  them  ;  and  I  have  always  accustomed  myself  to  think  more  on  what  I  have  than 
on  what  I  want.  I  have  seen  but  little  of  life,  but  1  have  looked  minutely  into  that  little,  and  I 
assure  you,  on  the  faith  of  a  poet  and  a  philosopher,  that  I  have  been  able  to  trace  the  miseries  and 
misfortunes  of  many  of  my  friends  solely  to  the  situation  in  which  they  were  placed,  and  which 
other  men  envied ;  and  I  never  knew  a  man  happy  with  a  great  fortune,  who  would  not  have 
been  much  happier  without  it.  Nor  did  I  ever  know  a  vicious  person,  nor  one  who  scoffed  at 
religion,  happy." 

We  have  other  testimony  beside  his  own  that  the  goodness  of  his  nature  made 
the  happiness  of  his  life. 

The  Rev.  James  Eussell,  of  Yarrow,  at  a  festival  in  honour  of  the  poet,  when  the 
statue  was  inaugurated,  thus  touchingly  referred  to  the  social  and  domestic  habits 
and  feelings  of  the  poet  he  had  long  known  and  loved  : — 

"  Much  it  testified  for  his  home  affections  that,  while  spending  a  season  in  London,  where  he 
was  feted  and  flattered  by  all  parties,  he  sent  down  '  a  New  Year's  Gift  for  his  children,'  in  the  form 
of  a  few  simple  prayers  and  hymns,  written  expressly  for  their  use.  I  cannot  forget  him  as  a  kind 
master  of  a  household,  indulgent  perhaps  to  a  fault,  nor  how  he  was  wont,  as  the  Sabbath  evening 
came  round,  to  take  down  '  the  big  ha'  Bible,  ance  his  father's  pride,'  for  the  worship  of  God,  and 
to  exercise  his  domestics  in  the  Shorter  Catechism.  I  cannot  forget  the  attractions  of  his  social  com- 
panionship, his  lively  fancy,  nor  his  flashes  of  merriment  that  set  the  table  in  a  roar.  I  cannot 
forget  his  intense  sympathy  with  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  cottage-life,  nor  his  generous  aid  in 
bringing  the  means  of  education  (all  the  more  valued  from  his  own  early  disadvantages)  within 
the  reach  of  the  shepherds  and  peasantry  around  him." 

Perhaps  the  name  of  the  Ettrick  Shepherd  was  made  more  widely  known  in 
England  by  the  lavish  and  sometimes  inconsiderate  use  of  it  in  Blackwood's  Magazine 
than  by  all  his  many  poems  and  tales  in  prose  and  verse.     Few  read  nowadays  his 

*  "A  pardonable  vanity,"  writes  Lockhart,  "made  him  convert  Hs  cottage  into  an  unpaid  hostelry  for  the 
reception  of  endless  troops  of  thoughtless  admirers  : "  the  natural  consequence  was  a  mesh  of  pecuniary  difficulties 
from  which  he  was  never  disentangled. 


1 


390  MEMORIES. 


"Mountain  Bard,"  or  his  "Queen's  Wake;"  and  "Bonny  Kilmeny "  is  known 
chiefly  by  its  pleasant  sound,  while  the  "Brownie  of  Bodsbeck "  and  his  "Tales  of 
the  Covenanters  "  were  long  ago  laid  on  the  shelf.*  The  Shepherd  is,  however, 
immortalised  in  the  "  Noctes."  It  is  understood  that  Hogg  protested  against  the 
"  too  much  familiarity  that  breeds  contempt,"  and  it  is  certain  that  he  was  often 
"  shown  up  "  in  a  way  that  could  not  have  been  agreeable  ;  but  of  a  surety  it  gave 
him  notoriety,  if  it  did  not  bring  him  fame  ;  and  it  is  not  improbable  that  he  preferred 
thus  to  be  talked  about  to  the  not  being  talked  about  at  all.  That  his  friend  Wilson 
meant  him  no  serious  wrong  is  certain,  for  Wilson  was  of  those  who  most 
esteemed  and  regarded  him.  In  one  of  his  letters  to  Hogg,  Wilson  promises  to 
abstain  from  introducing  him  into  the  "  Noctes  ; "  "  i/,  indeed,  that  he  disagreeable  to 
you.'"  "But,"  he  adds,  "all  the  idiots  in  existence  shall  never  persuade  me  that 
in  those  dialogues  you  are  not  respected  and  honoured,  and  that  they  have  not 
spread  the  fame  of  your  genius  and  your  virtues  all  over  Europe,  America,  Asia,  and 
Africa." 

Like  Wordsworth's  pedlar,  he  was 

"a  man 
Whom  no  one  could  have  passed  without  remark  ; 
Active  and  nervous  in  his  gait ;  his  limbs 
And  his  whole  figure  breathe  intelligence." 

He  is  ably  described  by  one  who  loved  him  much,  and  whose  name  might  have 
been  associated  with  the  foremost  worthies  of  his  country,  had  not  an  "  evil  destiny  " 
placed  him,  while  yet  young,  in  a  position  of  independence — to  whom  "  letters  "  have, 
therefore,  ever  since  been  a  relaxation,  and  not  a  pursuit,  but  who  sometimes  supplies 
proof  that  Scotland,  in  obtaining  a  valuable  sheriff,  lost  a  rare  poet :  I  refer  to  Henry 
Glasford  Bell  (now  no  more  of  earth),  who,  on  the  occasion  of  inaugurating  the  statue 
of  Hogg,  thus  pictured  his  friend  : — "  We  remember  his  sturdy  form,  and  shrewd, 
familiar  face  ;  his  kindly  greetings  and  his  social  cheer,  his  summer  angling  and  his 
winter  curling,  his  welcome  presence  at  kirk  and  market,  and  Border  game  ;  and, 
above  all,  how  his  grey  eye  sparkled  as  he  sang,  in  his  own  simple  and  unadorned 
fashion,  those  rustic  ditties  in  which  a  manly  vigour  of  sentiment  was  combined  with 
unexpected  grace,  sweetness,  and  tenderness." 

This  is  Lockhart's  portrait  ("Peter's  Letters"): — "His  hair  is  of  the  true 
Sicambrian  yellow ;  his  eyes  are  of  the  lightest,  and  at  the  same  time  of  the  clearest, 
blue ;  his  forehead  is  finely,  hut  strangely,  shaped,  the  regions  of  pure  fancy  and  of 
pure  wit  being  largely  developed  ;  his  countenance  is  eloquent,  both  in  its  gravity 
and  levity ;  "  and  he  adds,  "  He  could  have  undergone  very  little  change  since  he 
was  a  herd  on  Yarrow." 

The  Eev.  Mr.  Thomson,  his  biographer,  thus  pictures  him  : — "  In  height  he  was 
five  feet  ten  inches  and  a  half;  his  broad  chest  and  square  shoulders  indicated 


*  A  very  beautiful  edition  of  Hogg's  works,  poetry  and  prose,  was  published  in  1865,  in  two  large  volumes  by 
Messrs.  Blackie,  of  Glasgow.  It  is  a  worthy  monument  to  his  memoiy-more  enduiing  than  the  statue  that  stands 
by  St.  Mary's  Loch.  The  illustrations,  of  which  there  are  many,  are  from  the  admirable  pencil  of  D.  O.  HUl  •  the 
Iflndscapes,  that  is  to  say  ;  for  there  are  several  capital  figm'e-prints  by  an  artist  of  rare  merit,  K.  Halswelle  "  The 
biography  is  by  the  Rev.  Thomas  Thomson  ;  it  is  charmingly  written,  with  a  genuine  love  of  the  subject,  a  thorough 
appreciation  of  the  man,  and  an  earnest  desire  to  do  him  justice.  Altogether,  no  writer  of  oui-  time  has  been  more 
satisfactorily  dealt  with,  as  regards  editor,  artists,  and  publisher. 


JAMES  HOGG.  391 


health  and  strength ;  while  a  well-rounded  leg,  and  small  ankle  and  foot,  showed 
the  active  shepherd  who  could  outstrip  the  runaway  sheep."  His  hair  in  his 
younger  days  was  auburn,  slightly  inclining  to  yellow,  which  afterwards  became 
dark  brown,  mixed  with  grey  ;  his  eyes,  which  were  dark  blue,  were  bright  and 
intelligent.  His  features  were  irregular,  while  his  eye  and  ample  forehead  redeemed 
the  countenance  from  every  charge  of  common-place  homeliness.  And  Lockhart  thus, 
with  unusual  generosity,  gives  an  insight  into  his  character  : — "  The  great  beauty  of 
this  man's  deportment,  to  my  mind,  lies  in  the  unaffected  simplicity  with  which  he 
retains,  in  many  respects,  the  external  manners  and  appearance  of  his  original  station, 
blending  all,  however,  with  a  softness  and  manly  courtesy,  derived,  perhaps,  in  the 
main,  rather  from  the  natural  delicacy  of  his  mind  and  temperament  than  from  the 
influence  of  anything  he  has  learned  by  mixing  more  largely  in  the  world." 

The  following  tribute  to  the  memory  of  Hogg  I  take  from  the  speech  of  Professor 
Aytoun,  delivered  at  the  Burns  Festival  in  1844 — a  scene  I  have  described  in  my 
Memory  of  Professor  Wilson  : — 

"  Who  is  there  that  has  not  heard  of  the  Ettrick  Shepherd — of  him  whose  inspirations  descended 
as  lightly  as  the  breeze  that  blows  along  the  mountain  sides — who  saw,  amongst  the  lonely  and 
sequestered  glens  of  the  south,  from  eyelids  touched  with  fairy  ointment,  such  visions  as  are  vouch- 
safed to  the  minstrel  alone — the  dream  of  sweet  Kilmeny,  too  spiritual  for  the  taint  of  earth  ? 
I  shall  not  attempt  any  comparison — for  I  am  not  here  to  criticise — between  his  genius  and  that  of 
other  men  on  whom  God,  in  His  bounty,  has  bestowed  the  great  and  the  marvellous  gift.  The 
songs  and  the  poetry  of  the  Shepherd  are  now  the  nation's  own,  as  indeed  they  long  have  been, 
and  amidst  the  minstrelsy  of  the  choir  who  have  made  the  name  of  Scotland  and  her  peasantry 
familiar  throughout  the  wide  reach  of  the  habitable  world,  the  clear,  wild  notes  of  the  iorest  will 
for  ever  be  heard  to  ring.  I  have  seen  him  many  times  by  the  banks  of  his  own  romantic  Yarrow; 
I  have  sat  with  him  in  the  calm  and  sunny  weather  by  the  margin  of  St.  Mary's  Lake  ;  I  have 
seen  his  eyes  sparkle  and  his  cheeks  flush  as  he  spoke  out  some  old  heroic  ballad  of  the  days  of 
the  Douglas  and  the  Graeme ;  and  I  have  felt,  as  I  listened  to  the  accents  of  his  manly  voice,  that 
while  Scotland  could  produce  amongst  her  children  such  men  as  him  beside  me,  her  ancient  spirit 
had  not  departed  from  her,  nor  the  star  of  her  glory  grown  pale.  For  he  was  a  man,  indeed, 
cast  in  Nature's  happiest  mould.  True-hearted,  and  brave,  and  generous,  and  sincere ;  alive  to 
every  kindly  impulse,  and  fresh  at  the  core  to  the  last,  he  lived  among  his  native  hills  the  blame- 
less life  of  the  shepherd  and  the  poet ;  and,  on  the  day  when  he  was  laid  beneath  the  sod,  in  the 
lonely  kirkyard  of  Ettrick,  there  was  not  one  dry  eye  amongst  the  hundreds  that  lingered  round 
his  grave." 

I  quote  the  testimony  of  Professor  Wilson  m  respect  to  the  peculiar  character  of 
his  poetic  power  : — 

"  Whenever  he  treats  of  fairy-land,  his  language  insensibly  becomes,  as  it  were,  soft,  mild, 
and  aerial — we  could  almost  think  that  we  heard  the  voice  of  one  of  the  fairy  folk— still  and 
serene  images  seem  to  rise  up  with  the  wild  music  of  the  inspiration,  and  the  poet  deludes  us  for 
the  time  into  an  unquestioning  and  satisfied  belief  in  the  existence  of  those  '  green  realms  of  bliss ' 
of  which  he  himself  seems  to  be  a  native  minstrel.  In  this  department  of  pure  poetry  the  Ettrick 
Shepherd  has,  among  his  own  countrymen  at  least,  no  competitor.  He  is  the  poet-lauteate  of  th& 
Court  of  Faery.  The  pastoral  valleys  of  the  south  of  Scotland  look  to  him  as  their  best-beloved 
poet — all  their  wild  and  gentle  superstitions  have  blended  with  his  being." 

Of  all  his  many  original  and  very  beautiful  compositions  there  are  some  that  take 
their  places  among  the  more  perfect  poems  of  the  age.  That  from  which  I  quote 
this  verse  is  surely  of  them  : — 

"  Bird  of  the  wilderness, 
Blithesome  and  cumberless. 


392  MEMORIES. 


Sweet  be  thy  matin  o'er  moorland  and  leal 

Emblem  of  happiness, 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place, 
Oh  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee ! 

Wild  is  thy  lay,  and  loud. 

Far  in  the  downy  cloud, 
Love  gives  it  energy,  love  gave  it  birth  : 

Where,  on  thy  dewy  wing. 

Where  art  thou  journeying  ? 
Thy  lay  is  in  heaven,  thy  love  is  on  earth !  " 

Southey — ever  a  safe  guide — writes  of  James  Hogg  as  "  a  worthy  fellow,  and  a 
man  of  very  extraordinary  powers;"  and  Wordsworth  pays  a  graceful  and  grateful 
compliment  to  one  who  was  his  "guide"  when  first  he  saw  "the  stream  of  Yarrow." 
The  poet  also  wrote  some  memorable  lines  when  he  learned  the  death  of  one  he 
esteemed  and  valued — when  "  Ettrick  mourned  her  Shepherd  dead." 

Mrs.  Hall  describes  an  evening  party  at  our  house,  in  which,  among  the  guests, 
were  James  Hogg,  Maria  Edgeworth,  Allan  Cunningham,  Colonel  James  Glencairn 
Burns,  Laetitia  Landon,  Procter,  Miss  M.  J.  Jewsbury,  Emma  Eoberts,  William 
Jerdan,  Mrs.  Holland,  Laman  Blanchard,  Richard  Lalor  Shiel,  and  Sir  David  Wilkie. 
Others,  no  doubt,  might  be  called  to  mind  who  there  met  on  that  evening.  They 
have  all  passed  from  earth.  This  is  the  portrait  she  then  drew  6f  Hogg: — "  I  can 
recall  James  Hogg  sitting  on  the  sofa — his  countenance  flushed  with  the  excitement 
and  the  '  toddy ' — (he  had  come  to  us  from  a  dinner  with  Sir  George  Warrender, 
whom  some  wag  spoke  of  as  Sir  George  Provender) — expressing  wild  earnestness, 
not,  I  thought,  unmixed  with  irascibility.  He  was  then,  certainly,  more  like  a 
buoyant  Irishman  than  a  steady  son  of  the  soil  of  the  thistle,  as  he  shouted  forth, 
in  an  untunable  voice,  songs  that  were  his  own  especial  favourites,  giving  us  some 

account  of  the  origin  of  each  at  its   conclusion.      One  I  particularly  remember 

'  The  Women  Folk.'  '  Ha,  ha ! '  he  exclaimed,  echoing  our  applause  with  his  own 
broad  hands — '  that  song,  which  I  am  often  forced  to  sing  to  the  leddies,  sometimes 
against  my  will,  that  song  never  will  be  sung  so  well  again  by  any  one  after  I  ha' 
done  wi'  it.'  I  remember  Cunningham's  comment,  "  That's  because  you  have  the 
nature  in  you  ! '  " 

Hogg's  birthplace  and  his  grave  are  but  a  few  hundred  yards  asunder.  Ettrick 
Kirk  is  modern ;  but  the  kirkyard  is  so  old  that  the  rude  forefathers  of  Ettrick  have 
been  laid  there  for  many  centuries.  A  plain  headstone  marks  the  poet's  grave.  It 
contains  this  inscription  : — 

"James  Hogg,  the  Ettrick  Shepherd,  who  was  born  at  Ettrick  Hall  in  1770,  and 
died  at  Altrive  Lake  the  21st  day  of  November,  1835." 

The  place  of  his  death  was  some  miles  distant  from  that  of  his  birth  and  burial  • 
but  there  his  people  lay ;  there  he  desired  to  lie ;  and  to  that  kirkyard  his  widow 
rightly  conveyed  him;  his  widow — for  in  1820  he  had  married  Miss  Margaret 
Phillips,  a  young  lady  of  respectable  family;  "and,"  writes  his  biographer,  "no 
choice  he  ever  made  was  so  wise,  and  at  the  same  time  so  fortunate."  '^'  She  survived 
him,  and  so  did  one  son  and  three  daughters. 


*  Margaret,  the  widow  of  James  Hogg,  received  m  January,  1854,  one  of  the  Crown  pensions  £50  a  year 
consideration  of  her  husband's  poetical  talent,"  and  in  February,  1858,  an  annual  sum  from  the  'same  source 
awarded  to  Jessie  P.  Hogg,  "  in  consideration  of  the  literary  merits  of  her  father." 


JAMES  HOGG. 


393 


When  he  was  interred  in  Ettrick  Kirkyard,  a  thoughtful  and  loving  friend,  a 
peasant,  as  he  himself  had  been,  brought  some  clumps  of  daisies  from  one  of  the 
far-off  nooks  he  loved,  to  plant  upon  his  grave  ;  and  by  its  side  stood  Professor 
Wilson.  As  one  of  Hogg's  friends  writes,  "  It  was  a  sight  to  see  that  grand  old 
man,  head  uncovered,  his  long  hair  waving  in  the  wind,  the  tears  streaming  down 
his  cheeks  !  " 


THE  GRAVE  OF  JAMES  HOGG. 


Thus  the  Shepherd  sleeps  among  his  kindred,  his  friends,  his  companions — 
associates  from  youth  to  age — in  the  bosom  of  Ettrick  Dale,  so  often  the  subject  of 
his  fervid  song.  The  debt  he  asked  for  has  been  paid  ;  the  green  turf  of  his  native 
valley  covers  the  clay  that  enclosed  the  lofty,  genial,  and  generous  spirit  of  a  truly 
great  man. 

"  Thee  I'll  sing,  and  when  I  dee, 
Thou  wilt  lend  a  sod  to  hap  me. 
Pausing  swains  will  say,  and  weep, 
'  Here  our  Shepherd  lies  asleep.'  " 


394 


MEMORIES. 


1 


But  the  grave-stone  at  Ettrick  is  not  the  only  monument  to  James  Hogg.  "Auld 
Scotland" — after  pausing,  perhaps,  too  long — made  a  move;  and  a  statue  of  the 
Ettrick  Shepherd  was  erected  in  Ettrick  Dale. 

That  monument  is  the  work  of  Mr,  Andrew  Currie,  R.S.A.,  and  was  erected  in 
1860  by  subscription,  mainly  owing  to  the  efforts  of  the  Rev.  Charles  Rogers, 
LL.D.  The  Bard  of  Ettrick  is  seated  on  "an  oak-root — an  appropriate  relic  of  the 
forest."  The  poet's  well-knit,  muscular  form  is  partly  enveloped  in  his  plaid,  which 
crosses  one  shoulder,  and  falls  gracefully  upon  his  finely-moulded  limbs.     His  coat 


THE   MONUMENT   AT   ST.  MABY's   LOCH. 


is  closely  buttoned  ;  he  plants  his  sturdy  staff  firmly  on  the  ground  with  his  right 
hand,  and  holds  in  his  left  a  scroll,  inscribed  with  the  last  line  of  *'  The  Queen's 
Wake  "— 

"  Hath  taught  the  wandering  winds  to  sing." 

"  Hector,"  the  poet's  favourite  dog,  rests  lovingly  at  his  feet,  with  head  erect,  survey- 
ing the  hills  behind,  as  if  conscious  of  his  duties  in  tending  the  flocks  during  the 
poetic  reverie  of  his  master. 


JAMES  HOGG.  39  5 


The  panels  of  the  pedestal  contain  appropriate  inscriptions  from  "  The  Queen's 
Wake." 

The  statue  stands  on  an  elevation  midway  between  two  lakes — St.  Mary's  Loch 
and  the  Lower  Loch.  They  are  in  the  centre  of  a  district  renowned  in  picture  and 
in  song,  rich  in  traditionary  lore,  and  consecrated  by  heroic  deeds  in  the  olden  time. 
Legendary  Yarrow  pours  its  waters  into  St.  Mary's  Lake.  It  was  "lone  St.  Mary's 
silent  lake  "  that  especially  delighted  the  poet  Wordsworth,  visiting  Yarrow,  suggest- 
ing the  often-quoted  lines  : — 

"  The  swan  on  sweet  St.  Mary's  lake 
Floats  double — swan  and  shadow." 

It  was  the  lake  that  moved  the  muse  of  Scott : — 

"Abrupt  and  sheer,  the  mountains  sink 
At  once  upon  the  level  brink, 
And  just  a  trace  of  silver  sand 
Marks  where  the  water  meets  the  land." 

The  poet,  while  he  lived,  must  have  often  looked  from  that  very  spot  over  the  grand 
view,  thence  obtained,  of  fertile  land  and  clear  water  ;  and  here,  no  doubt,  if  his 
spirit  is  permitted  to  revisit  earth,  he  often  wanders,  about  the  scenes  he  has  com- 
memorated in  prose  and  in  verse. 

These  are  the  eloquent  words  of  Sheriff  Bell  at  the  festival  when  the  statue  was 
inaugurated  : — 

"And  now  that  monument  is  there  before  you,  adding  a  new  feature  to  this  romantic  land ; 
announcing  to  all  comers  that  Scotland  ne%'er  forgets  her  native  poets ;  teaching  the  lowliest 
labourer  that  genius  and  the  rewards  of  genius  are  limited  to  no  rank  or  condition  ;  upholding,  in 
its  Doric  and  manly  simplicity,  the  dignity  of  humble  worth ;  and  bidding  the  Tweed  and  the 
Yarrow,  the  Ettrick,  the  Teviot,  and  the  Gala,  sparkle  more  brightly  as  they  '  roll  on  their  way  ; ' 
for  the  Shepherd  who  murmured  by  their  banks  a  music  sweeter  than  their  own  is  to  be  seen 
once  more  by  the  side  of  his  own  Loch  Mary.  There  let  it  remain  in  the  summer  winds  and 
the  winter  showers,  never  destined  to  be  passed  carelesslj''  by,  as  similar  testimonials  too  often 
are  in  the  crowded  thoroughfares  of  cities,  but  gladdening  the  heart  of  many  an  admiring 
pilgrim,  who  will  feel  at  this  shrine  that  the  clonum  tiatiirce,  the  great  gift  of  song,  can  only  come 
from  on  high,  and  who,  as  he  wends  on  his  way,  will  waken  the  mountain  echoes  with  the  Shep- 
herd's glowing  strains,  wedded  to  some  grand  old  melody  of  Scotland,  one  of  those  many 
melodies  which  have  given  energy  to  the  swords  of  her  heroes,  and  inspiration  to  the  lyres  of 
her  poets!"* 

Hogg  survived  but  a  short  time  his  sympathising  and  generous  friend.  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  Lockhart  says,  "  It  had  been  better  for  Hogg's  fame  had  his  end  been  of 
earlier  date;  for  he  did  not  follow  his  best  benefactor  until  he  had  insulted  his  dust." 
But  that  blot  upon  his  memory  is  not  justified  by  evidence.  Lockhart's  indignation 
was  excited  by  Hogg's  publication,  "  The  Domestic  Manners  and  Private  Life  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott,"  published  after  Scott's  death.  I  have  not  seen  it,  and  it  is  not 
reprinted  in  Blackie's  edition  of  his  works  ;  but  I  willingly  accept  the  statement  of 
his  biographer,  that  "notwithstanding  the  little  vanity  that  occasionally  peeps  out," 
it  is  amply  redeemed  by  "  high  and  just  appreciation  of  his  illustrious  mentor,  and 

*  Professor  Wilson,  writing  as  Christopher  North,  in  1824  ("Noctes  Ambrosianse  "),  thus  prophesied  the  after- 
destiny  of  Hog'g  : — "My  beloved  Shepherd,  some  half-century  hence,  your  effigy  will  be  seen  on  some  bonny  gi-een 
knowe  in  the  forest,  with  its  honest  face  looking  across  St.  Mary's  Loch  and  up  towards  the  Grey  Mare's  Tail,  while 
by  moonlight  aU  your  own  fairies  wiU  dance  round  its  pedestal." 


396  MEMORIES. 


1 


the  affectionate  enthusiasm  of  his  details."  Neither  has  there  been  a  reprint  of  his 
very  singular  book,  "  Lay  Sermons  on  Good  Principles  and  Good  Breeding,"  pub- 
lished by  Fraser  in  1834,  a  copy  of  which  he  presented  to  Mrs.  Hall.  It  is  full  of 
practical  v/isdom,  contains  some  striking  anecdotes  concerning  himself  and  his 
experience,  and  bears  the  strongest  and  most  conclusive  evidence  of  his  trust  in 
Divine  Providence  and  his  entire  faith  in  Christianity.  I  must  express  my  regret 
that  this  most  beautiful  and  useful  volume  has  been  overlooked  by  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Thomson  in  republishing  the  works  of  James  Hogg ;  and  I  earnestly  counsel 
Messrs.  Blackie  to  reprint  it,  not  only  as  an  act  of  justice  to  the  memory  of  the 
writer,  but  as  a  means  of  rendering  incalculable  service  to  the  cause  of  virtue  and 
religion. 

Among  the  worthies  of  Scotland,  James  Hogg  holds,  and  will  ever  hold,  a  fore- 
most place.  A  country  so  fertile  of  great  men  and  great  women  may  be,  as  it  is, 
proud  of  his  genius.  Among  "  uneducated  poets  "  he  stands  broadly  out — beyond 
them  all:  generally  they  were  "poets,"  and  nothing  more.  The  prose  of  Hogg  has 
many  claims  to  merit ;  his  tales  are  full  of  interest,  and  often  manifest  great  power; 
and  if  he  wrote  much — far  more  than  others  of  his  "  class  " — he  wrote  much  that 
was  good,  and  nothing — at  least  so  far  as  general  readers  know — that  was  bad.* 

Although  I  was  but  little  acquainted  with  the  countrymen  and  contemporaries  of 
James  Hogg  who  have  been  famous  in  literature,  I  knew  some  of  them  during  a 
pleasant  visit  to  Edinburgh  in  1840,  when  I  was  the  guest  of  one  of  the  noblest  and 
best  of  them,  Robert  Chambers,  to  whom  (as  I  have  elsewhere  said)  Scotland  owes 
a  debt  of  gratitude  for  services  incalculably  large.  During  our  visit  he  took  pains  to 
introduce  us  to  all  the  Scottish  "worthies  "  within  reach.     Of  some  of  them  I  may 


give  "  Memories,"  however  slight. 


JOH^    GALT. 

John  Galt  I  knew  when  he  lived  in  a  grotesque  cottage,  called  Barn  Cottage,  at 
Old  Brompton  ;  and  I  met  him  occasionally  at  the  "  evenings  "  of  Lady  Blessington, 
with  whom  he  was  an  especial  favourite. 

*  I  have  preserved  one  of  his  letters  to  Mrs.  Hall :  it  is  characteristic,  and  Imay  be  justified  in  printing  it. 

"  Mount  Benger,  May  llnd,  1830. 
"My  dear  Mrs.  Hall, 

"  It  signifies  little  how  much  a  man  admires  a  woman  when  he  cannot  please  her  I  think  it  perhaps 
the  most  unfortutiate  thing  that  can  befall  him,  and  of.all  creatures  ever  I  met  with,  you  are  the  most  capricious  and 
the  hardest  to  please.  I  wish  I  had  you  for  a  few  days  to  wander  with  me  through  the  romantic  dells  of  Westmore- 
land. As  this  is  never  likely  to  happen,  so  I  have  no  hopes  of  ever  pleasing  you.  I  have  received  both  your  flattering 
letters,  and  I'U  not  tell  you  how  much  I  think  of  you,  for  I  am  very  angry  with  you,  and  have  always  been  since 
ever  I  saw  your  name  first  in  print,  to  say  nothing  of  writing,  which  is  far  worse ;  but  if  the  face  and  form  be  as  I 
have  painted  them  mentally,  and  a  true  index  to  the  mind,  you  are  a  jewel.  It  will  be  perhaps  as  good  for  us  both 
that  my  knowledge  of  you  never  extend  further,  as  it  would  be  a  pity  to  spoil  a  dream  so  delicious. 

"  I  sent  you  a  very  good  tale,  and  one  of  those  with  which  I  delight  to  harrow  up  the  little  souls  of  my  own 
family.  I  say  it  is  a  very  good  tale,  and  txactly  fit  for  children,  and  nobody  else  ;  and  your  letter  to  me  occasioned 
me  wi'iting  one  of  the  best  poems  ever  dropped  from  my  pen,  in  ridicule  of  youi's  and  the  modern  system  of  education. 
Give  it  to  Mr.  Hall.  As  I  think  shame  to  put  my  name  to  such  mere  common-place  things  as  you  seem  to  want,  I 
have  sent  you  a  letter  from  an  English  widow. 

"  Yours  most  affectionately, 

"  James  Hogg." 


WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL.  397 

He  was  a  marked  illustration  of  the  adage,  "  A  rolling  stone  gathers  no  moss." 
He  sought  fortune  in  a  dozen  lands,  wandering  here  and  there — everywhere  ;  "  hob- 
nobbing "  in  all  out-of-the-way  places  with  out-of-the-way  characters  ;  the  companion 
often  of  very  questionable  people,  and  some  time  the  associate  of  Lord  Byron,  John 
Cam  Hobhouse,  and  their  "  set,"  but  ever  failing  to  find  the  true  road  to  prosperity 
and  fame,  although  he  might  by  a  better  pathway  have  found  both.  His  footsteps 
were  not  more  erratic  than  was  his  pen  ;  he  was  at  "  all  in  the  ring,"  including  bio- 
graphies and  tragedies;  but  his  writings  were  utter  failures,  until  he  "hit  upon" 
novels  of  Scottish  life  and  character.  These  were  "  successes,"  and  they  still  main- 
tain their  hold  on  the  public  :  his  "  Annals  of  the  Parish  "  (published  in  1821), 
"  Ayrshire  Legatees,"  and  "  Sir  Andrew  Wylie,"  are  not  yet  among  the  rejected  of 
the  libraries.  They  were  not  his  only  novels.  During  his  Canadian  sojourn  he 
gathered  materials  for  stories  of  another  order  ;  one  of  them,  "  Laurie  Todd,"  being 
hardly  less  popular  than  those  the  staple  of  which  was  furnished  by  his  own 
country. 

Thus  Wilson  writes  of  him  in  the  "Noctes:" — "  Gait  is  a  man  of  genius,  and 
some  of  his  happiest  productions  will  live  in  the  literature  of  his  country.  His 
humour  is  rich,  rare,  and  racy,  and  peculiar  withal,  entitling  him  to  the  character  of 
originality — a  charm  that  never  fadeth  away ;  he  has  great  power  in  the  homely 
pathetic,  and  he  is  conversant  not  only  with  many  modes  and  manners  of  life,  but 
with  much  of  its  hidden  and  more  mysterious  spirit." 

The  great  event  of  his  life  was  his  mission  to  Canada,  and  his  founding  the  town 
of  "  Guelph,"  as  the  agent  of  "  the  Canadian  Company,"  which  he  did  in  1827.  He 
was  not  long  there,  however.  Some  two  or  three  years  afterwards  he  was  conduct- 
ing the  Courier  newspaper,  and  leading  a  new  life,  "  in  which  the  secondary  condition 
of  authorship  was  made  primary." 

At  length,  broken  down  in  constitution,  a  terrible  wreck  of  manly  vigour,  he 
returned  to  Scotland,  and  died  at  Greenock,  in  1839,  in  the  sixtieth  year  of  his  age, 
having  been  born  at  Irvine  in  1779. 

I  ever  found  him  a  most  pleasant  and  agreeable  gentleman,  not  only  willing,  but 
eager,  to  give  information.  Evidently  his  nature  was  not  only  frank  and  cordial, 
but  confiding :  he  was  one,  no  doubt,  who  often  furnished  his  enemies  with  weapons 
to  use  against  him.  He  was  very  tall  and  powerful  of  frame,  with  a  fine  intelligent 
countenance — his  features  large  ;  he  had  that  peculiar  bearing  an  idea  of  which  is 
conveyed  by  the  term  "  soldier-like." 


WILLIAM   MOTHEEWELL. 

William  Mothekwell  died  in  1835,  at  the  early  age  of  thirty-eight.  In  his  later 
years  he  was  editor  of  the  Glasgow  Courier,  but  some  time  before  his  death  he 
collected  his  poems,  and  they  may  safely  be  classed  among  the  most  touching  and 
beautiful  that  Scotland  has  produced.     He  is  chiefly  known  and  valued,  however,  as 


398  MEMORIES. 


1 


one  of  the  best  collectors  of  remains  of  ancient  Scottish  ballads  ;  to  the  rich  store  he 
added  much  of  value  :  some  of  them,  no  doubt,  were  touched  up  by  his  own  pen. 
He  was  gentle  in  look,  in  manner,  and  in  mind  ;  one  of  those  who  loved  to  com- 
mune with  the  great  spirits  gone  from  earth ;  his  luxuries  were  the  songs  they  wrote, 
and  a  "  scrap  "  from  old  tradition  was  to  him  a  rare  delicacy.  I  had  but  little 
intercourse  with  him,  yet  enough  to  appreciate  the  gentle  and  loveable  nature  of  the. 


DAVID   MACBETH  MOIE. 

I  KECALL  with  exceeding  pleasure  the  gracious  countenance  and  cordial  manners  of 
MoiK,  who  obtained  much  renown,  principally  in  the  pages  of  Blackwood' s  Magazine, 
under  the  signature  of  "  Delta."  When  I  knew  him  he  was  practising  as  a  surgeon 
at  Musselburgh.  He  attended  me  there  during  a  brief  illness,  and  I  remember  his 
pleasantly  expressing  a  hope  that  I  might  like  his  poetry  better  than  his  physic. 

He  was  born  in  1798,  and  died  in  1851,  and  is  one  of  the  men  of  whom  Scotland 
is  rightly  and  justly  proud. 


WILLIAM   EDMOISTSTONE  AYTOU:^r. 

Of  a  high  nature  was  the  poet  "William  Edmonstone  Aytoun,  Professor  of  Khetoric 
and  Belles  Letters  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  a  post  in  which,  in  1845,  he  suc- 
ceeded his  friend,  David  Macbeth  Moir. 

I  knew  but  little  of  him,  yet  enough  to  make  me  esteem  him  highly,  which,  indeed, 
all  did  who  were  either  of  his  friends  or  acquaintances. 

It  did  not  seem  probable  that  death  would  have  called  him  from  life  so  early :  he 
was  tall,  robust  of  form,  and  apparently  destined  to  a  long  career  of  labour.  He  was 
born  in  Edinburgh  in  1813,  and  was  but  fifty-two  when  he  died.  Although,  perhaps, 
south  of  the  Tweed,  he  is  best  known  by  the  "  Bon  Gaultier  Ballads,"  written  in  con- 
junction with  his  learned,  excellent,  and  accomplished  friend,  Theodore  Martin,  the 
ballads  of  which  he  was  exclusively  the  author  will  endure  with  the  "land's  language." 
We  have  few  so  graphic,  so  grand,  so  fervid.  "  The  Burial  March  of  Dundee  "  and 
"  The  Death  of  Montrose  "  will  be  always  classed  among  the  very  finest  productions 
of  their  "  order." 

There  seemed  much  for  him  to  do  when  he  was  "  taken  ;"  but  he  has  left  a 
name  that  will  be  honoured  among  the  leading  worthies  to  whom  Scotland  is  indebted 
for  the  proud  glory  achieved  for  her  in  the  victories  of  Peace.  If  his  chief  themes 
were  those  of  War;  and  the  "Lays  of  the  Scottish  Cavaliers"  commemorate, 
mainly,  the  heroes  who  obtained  renown  in  civil  war,  Scotland  has  so  much  to  boast 
of  on  both  sides,  that  the  one  may,  and  does,  take  pride  in  the  honours  accorded  by 
posterity  to  the  other. 


LADY  blessingto:n'. 


ROM  the  year  1830  to  the  year  1850  few  persons  had  greater 
prominence  in  the  world  of  letters  than  Lady  Blessington ;  yet 
her  abilities  were  limited ;    none  of  her   writings    are    above 
mediocrity,  and  her  accomplishments  (using  the  term  in  its  ordi- 
nary sense)  were  in  no  way  remarkable.     She  was,  however,  very 
beautiful  ;   and  her  manners  had  that  rare  fascination  which,  com- 
bined with  personal  charms,  renders  a  woman  irresistible  in  her 
influence  on  man.     She  must  have  been  very  lovely  in  youth ;  she 
was  so,  indeed,  when  no  longer  young.     Her  face  was  peculiarly  Irish 
— round,  soft,  and  smiling,  fresh  and  fair  ;  her  form,  rather  under  than 
above  the  middle  size,  was  exquisitely  modelled — her  hand  and  arm 
especially  so  ;  *  her  voice  was  "  low  and  sweet."     She  had  that  peculiar 
tact,  which  is  a  distinguishing  characteristic  of  her   countrywomen  of  all 
grades,  of  combining  familiarity  with  dignity ;   which  never  implies  conde- 
scension, but  is  always  easy,  self-sustained,  and  self-confiding. 

To  her  personal  history  I  shall  make  little  or  no  reference.  I  have  known  of  her 
so  many  kindly  and  generous  acts,  so  much  considerate  sympathy,  so  ready  a  will  to 
render  timely  help,  so  earnest  a  mind  to  assist  any  suffering  artist  or  struggling  pro- 


•  A  very  dear  fi-iend  of  mine,  a  sculptor,  Henry  Behnes  Burlowe,  who  died  of  cholera  at  Eome  (in  1838, 1  think], 
modelled  her  hand.    It  was  an  exquisite  example  of  nature  preserved  by  art. 


400 


MEMORIES. 


fessor  of  letters,*  so  much  of  the  "  charity  that  covereth  a  multitude  of  sins,"  that  I 
desire  to  consider  her  apart  from  the  position  which,  in  a  great  degree,  confined  her 
intercourse  in  society  to  persons  not  of  her  own  sex. 


THE    EAKLY   RBSIDKKCB   OF   LADY   BLESSINGTON. 


Yet  some  brief  biography  is  necessary  in  order  to  comprehend  that  position ;  and 
so  much  I  am  free  to  give. 

Marguerite,  Countess  of  Blessington,  nee  Margaret  Power,  was  the  third  child  and 

*  Of  Lady  Blessington's  kindness  of  heart  and  generous  sympathy  there  were  many  who  could  have  adduced 
strong  proofs.  I  will  relate  one  of  several  that  came  within  my  own  knowledge.  I  had  felt  some  interest  in  a  young 
man  who  was  in  depressing  penury,  with  a  wife  and  children,  and  I  wi-ote  to  Lady  Blessington,  to  ask  her  to  obtain 
for  him  a  situation  as  "  a  postman "  in  the  Post  Office.  She  wrote  me  next  day,  enclosing  a  letter  from  Colonel 
Maberley  the  Secretary,  to  say  that  all  the  patronage  was  in  the  hands  of  the  Postmaster-General.  I  sent  for  the 
voung  man,  who  told  me  he  was  not  disappointed,  for  he  knew  better  than  I  did  the  difficulties  in  the  way.  The 
very  next  day,  however,  the  appointment  came  to  him.  Lady  Blessington  had  written  directly  to  the  Marquis  of 
Clanricarde,  and  obtained  it. 


LADY  BLESSINGTON. 


401 


second  daughter  of  Edmund 
PowerjEsq.,  of  Knockbrit,  near 
Clonmel,  in  the  county  of  Tip- 
perary,  where  she  was  born  on 
the  1st  of  September,  1790.* 
Her  father  appears  to  have 
been  what  in  Ireland  is  termed 
"  a  squireen  " — that  is  to  say, 
he  had  a  small  hereditary  pro- 
perty, on  which  he  lived  as 
best  he  could.  He  was  evi- 
dently one  of  the  worst  ex- 
amples of  his  "order" — 
guided  by  no  sort  of  principle. 
He  was  originally  a  Roman 
Catholic — it  suited  his  pur- 
pose to  become  a  Protestant. 
Before  his  death,  however,  he 
"relapsed."  For  some  time 
he  published  a  newspaper.  In 
1798  he  was  a  hunter-out  of 
rebels,  one  of  whom  he  shot, 
and  was  tried  for  murder. 
Certainly  he  was  a  "worth- 
less "  person,  and  none  can 
wonder  that  he  sacrificed  to 
the  highest  bidders  his  two 
beautiful  daughters — one  of 
whom  became  the  Countess 
of  Blessington,  the  other  the 
wife  of  Lord  Canterbury — 
Manners  Sutton — so  long 
Speaker  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. The  bad  old  man  lived 
to  see  them  both  greeted  as 
"  my  lady  ;  "  indeed,  his  other 
daughter  was  a  "  countess  " 
(marrying  a  French  count) ; 
and  he  died  in  1837. 


*  In  1796  the  Powers  removed  to 
Clonmel,  dweUing  in  a  small  house,  near 
the  bridge,  at  a  place  called  "  Suir  Island." 
In  the  locality  it  is  pointed  out  as  the 
bu'thplace  of  Lady  Blessington.  It  was 
not  so.  Nevertheless,  I  procured  a  photo- 
graph of  it,  and  have  engraved  it. 


D    D 


402  MEMORIES. 


1 


When  Margaret  was  aged  between  fourteen  and  fifteen- — a  graceful  and  beautiful 
girl,  yet  almost  a  child — she  was  forced  into  marriage  with  Captain  Maurice 
St.  Leger  Farmer.  He  was  then  considered  more  than  half  insane,*  and  Power 
knew  it;  but  the  price  was  paid,  and  she  was  taken  to  his  home  "a  bride."  She 
lived  with  him,  however,  but  a  few  months,  exposed  to  his  brutality  and  thorough 
wickedness,  obtaining  reluctant  shelter  from  her  father — only  for  a  time.  She 
quitted  his  house  also,  and  her  ways  and  means  for  some  years  afterwards  are 
"wrapped  in  obscurity."  In  1817  she  was  released  from  the  ties  that  legally 
restrained  her.  Her  husband,  in  a  drunken  fit,  fell  from  a  window  of  a  room  in  the 
King's  Bench  prison;  and  in  1818  she  became  the  wife  of  Charles  John  Gardiner, 
Earl  of  Blessington.  His  lordship  had  been  married  previously — leaving  by  his  first 
wife  an  only  child,  Lady  Harriet  Anne  Frances  Gardiner,  married  to  the  Count 
D'Orsay  (in  1827),  and  subsequently  married  (in  1853)  to  the  Hon.  Charles  Spencer 
Cowper.  There  were  other  children,  but  they  died  young  ;  and  there  were  others 
"  of  whom  no  mention  is  made  in  the  '  Peerage.'  "  The  Countess  died  in  1814,  and 
as  soon  as  "  Mrs.  Farmer  "  was  released  from  bondage  to  a  bad  husband,  she  became 
the  second  wife  of  Lord  Blessington.  He  died  in  1829,  and  the  Countess  remained 
a  widow. 

That  will  suffice  for  her  life's  history.  It  is  but  a  sad  one  up  to  the  year  1830, 
and  it  was  not  a  happy  one  thenceforward.  When  I  knew  her  first,  she  was  living 
in  Seamore  Place,  Mayfair  ;  the  Count  and  Countess  D'Orsay  then  residing  with  her. 
Early  in  1836  she  removed  to  Gore  House,  Kensington  Gore,  and  there  she  dwelt 
until  the  14th  of  April,  1849. 

Her  jointure  was  £2,000  a  year,  and  she  made  a  considerable  sum  annually  by  her 
writings  ;  but  there  were  many  and  large  demands  upon  her  purse.  Though  her  habits 
were  not  extravagant,  they  were  expensive;  she  "  received "  liberally  ;  her  tastes 
were  costly  ;  she  had,  probably,  no  means  of  "  squaring  "  her  income  with  her  expen- 
diture. The  failure  of  a  publisher,  Charles  Heath,  led  to  a  temporary  embarrass- 
ment, which  she  sought  to  remove  in  the  usual  perilous  way.  The  "  potato  blight" 
in  Ireland  had  arrested  the  anticipated  and  forestalled  remittances  from  that  country.- 
Creditors  became  clamorous;  embarrassments  multiplied;  she  was  living  in  perpetual 
fear  of  arrest.  None  of  her  property  was  in  reality  her  own  ;  every  device  to  raise 
money  had  been  resorted  to  ;  and  at  last  all  the  treasures  she  had  accumulated,  the 
household  gods  she  worshipped,  the  cherished  gifts  of  friends  she  loved  and 
honoured,  passed  under  the  hands  of  the  auctioneer.  She  "  retired  to  the  Continent ; " 
Gore  House  was  deserted,  and  not  very  long  afterwards,  the  cook,  Soyer,  was  its 
lessee,  consigning  it  to  the  uses  of  an  English  restaurant,  to  accommodate  an  influx 
of  expected  visitors  to  the  Exhibition  of  1851.  The  site  is  now  covered  with  stately 
town  residences  of  the  wealthy. 

It  was  a  melancholy  "  crash."  Lady  Blessington's  biographer,  Dr.  R.  E.  Madden, 
describes  the  scene.     I  did  not  witness  it,  nor  was  I  ever  in  the  house  during  its 


*  It  is  but  just  to  add  that  this  statement  was  contradicted  by  his  brother ;  but  that  he  was  a  man  ever  unguided 
by  honour  and  integrity  there  can  be  no  doubt. 


LADY  BLESSINGTON.  403 


occupancy  by  Soyer,  thougli  often  solicited  to  visit  it  by  the  popularity-hunting 
purveyor  of  the  grand  achievements  of  his  art. 

Lady  Blessington  then  became  a  resident  in  Paris ;  but  the  trials  to  which  she 
had  been  subjected  had  destroyed  her  constitution.  In  April,  1849,  she  arrived  in 
that  city,  accompanied  by  her  tv^o  nieces,  and  on  the  4th  of  June  of  that  year  she, 
somewhat  suddenly,  died — "of  enlargement  of  the  heart."  It  was,  no  doubt, 
"  broken.'' 

Count  D'Orsay  erected  a  huge  monument  over  her  remains  in  the  burial-ground 
at  Cambourcy.  "  It  stands  on  a  hillside,  just  above  the  village  cemetery,  and  over- 
looks a  view  of  exquisite  beauty  and  immense  extent,  taking  in  the  Seine,  winding 
through  the  fertile  valley,  and  the  forest  of  St.  Grermain ;  its  plains,  villages,  and 
far-distant  hills  ;  and  at  the  back  it  is  sheltered  by  chestnut-trees  of  large  size  and 
great  age.     A  more  picturesque  spot  it  is  difficult  to  imagine." 

Count  D'Orsay  had  preceded  her  to  Paris.  He,  too,  was  encompassed  by  debts  ; 
he  gradually  sank,  from  being  "  the  glass  of  fashion  and  the  mould  of  form,"  into 
premature  old  age,  and  died  in  1852  of  "  decrepitude,"  when  no  more  than  fifty-two 
years  old.  ^ 

He  was  universally  recognised  as  a  man  of  rare  accomplishments ;  tall,  well 
made,  handsome,  graceful,  and  with  manners  singularly  insinuating.  He  was  con- 
sidered and  described,  however,  as  a  "  fop."  His  "  appointments"  were  all  of  the 
highest  possible  order ;  his  dress  the  perfection  of  the  toilette  ;  *  his  brougham  a 
rare  piece  of  art.  His  marriage  with  Lady  Harriet  Gardiner  was  an  awful  mistake, 
that  engendered  much  misery.  They  did  not  live  long  together  ;  the  one  had  for 
the  other  no  affection  ;  yet  Lady  Harriet  was  a  most  beautiful  woman — one  whom, 
apparently,  any  man  might  have  loved.  A  few  months  before  his  death,  the  then 
President  of  the  French  Republic — "the  Emperor" — gave  him  a  poor  and  almost 
nominal  appointment  as  Siimitendant  des  Beaux  Arts.  It  was  too  late  to  avert  his 
rapid  descent  into  the  grave.  It  is  said,  however,  that  Louis  Napoleon  owed  to 
Alfred  D'Orsay  more  than  he  owed  to  any  other  person  living  ;  and  the  charge  of 
ingratitude  has  been  advanced  against  the  Emperor. t  Certain  it  is  that,  when  Gore 
House  was  in  its  "  glory,"  the  "  Prince  Napoleon  "  was  seldom  absent  from  its 
gatherings. 

It  was  in  the  year  1832  I  first  knew  Lady  Blessington.  I  was  then  editor  of  the 
New  Monthly  Magazine,  and  I  had  called  upon  her  (in  Seamore  Place)  in  consequence 
of  her  having  expressed  a  wish  to  write  for  that  journal.  She  had  then  done  but 
little  with  her  pen,  and  that  little  not  calculated  to  make  a  sensation.  The  subjects 
she  suggested  were  not  tempting  ;  but  she  fell  into  discourse  of  Lord  Byron,  telling 
me  some  striking  anecdotes  concerning  him.  It  was  obvious  to  say  what  I  did  say — 
"If  you  desire  to  write  for  the  Neiv  Monthly,  why  not  put  on  paper  what  you  have 
been  saying  in  words  ?"     Out  of  that  thought  grew  the  "  Conversations  with  Lord 


*  "  Such  a  dress !  white  great-coat,  blue  satin  cravat,  hair  oiled  and  curling,  hat  of  the  primest  curve  and  purest 
■water,  gloves  scented  with  eau  de  jasmin,  primrose  in  tint,  skin  in  tightness." — Haydon. 

+  It  is  but  justice  to  the  Emperor,  however,  to  say  that  if  this  charge  can  be  sustained,  it  is  the  only  one  ot  tHe 
kind  that  has  been  advanced  against  him.  It  is  notorious  that  the  friends  he  had  made  in  adversity  he  remembered 
in  prosperity. 

D    D  2 


404  MEMORIES. 


Byron,  by  Lady  Blessington,"  which  obtained  large  popularity,  and  led  to  her  be- 
coming an  author  by  profession. 

She  may  be  considered  and  described  as  then  in  "  her  prime,"  although  past  forty. 
It  is  onlyEngHsh,  and,  perhaps  more  so,  Irish,  women,  at  that  period  of  life,  who  are 
even  more  lovely  in  age  than  in  youth.  She  was  inclined  to  embonjooint ;  her  hair 
abundant,  and  of  a  lightish  brown,  but  she  always  wore  caps  fastened  under  the  chin ; 
her  complexion  fair  and  healthily  tinged,  deriving  no  aid  from  art ;  she  was  too  stout 
to  be  graceiul,  but  she  had  a  natural  grace  that  regulated  all  her  movements.  There 
was  nothing  artificial  in  aught  she  said  or  did ;  nothing  hurried  or  self-distrustful 
about  her  ;  she  seemed  perfectly  conscious  of  power,  but  without  the  slightest 
assumption  or  pretence  ;  it  was  easy  to  believe  in  her  fascinating  influence  over  all 
with  whom  she  came  in  contact ;  but  it  was  as  little  difficult  to  feel  assured  that  such 
influence  would  be  exercised  with  generosity,  consideration,  and  sympathy.  N.  P.Willis, 
who  saw  her  about  that  time,  thus  pictures  her : — 

"  A  woman  of  remarkable  beauty,  half  buried  in  a  fauteuil  of  yellow  satin,  reading  by  a  mag- 
nificent lamp  suspended  from  the  centre  of  the  aiched  ceiling  ;  sofas,  couches,  ottomans,  and 
busts  arranged  in  rather  a  crowded  sumptuousness  through  the  room  ;  enamel  tables,  covered  with 
expensive  and  elegant  trifles,  in  every  corner;  and  a  delicate  white  hand  relieved  on  the  back  of 
a  book,  to  which  the  eye  was  attracted  by  the  blaze  of  its  diamond  rings." 

No  one  more  carefully  studied  how  to  grow  old  gracefully  than  did  Lady  Bles- 
sington ;  no  one  knew  better  that  the  charms  of  youth  are  not  the  attractions  of  age. 
She  was  ever  admirably  dressed,  but  afi'ected  none  of  the  adornments  that  become 
deformities  when  out  of  harmony  with  Time. 

She  was  conversing  with  us  once  on  this  topic,  and  told  us  a  story ;  I  cannot 
say  if  it  were  from  books  or  within  her  own  experience.  It  was  of  a  lady  who,  when 
young,  had  often  admired  herself  in  a  mirror  that  graced  her  boudoir  in  a  palazzo 
at  Venice.  Some  years  afterwards,  being  at  home  in  England,  she  could  find  no 
looking-glass  that  did  justice  to  her  charms  ;  and  after  various  trials  and  as  many 
complaints,  she  persuaded  her  husband  to  purchase  for  her  the  old  beloved  mirror 
she  remembered  so  well.  It  was  placed  in  her  English  mansion.  Full  of  delight 
and  hope,  she  ran  to  it,  as  of  old,  to  adjust  her  tresses,  but  in  a  very  few  minutes 
retired  with  disappointment  amounting  to  despair.  She  had  discovered  that  Time 
had  rendered  necessary  a  very  difierent  mirror  from  that  Avhich  had  reflected  her 
beauties  in  youth  ! 

It  was  on  that  principle  Lady  Blessington  governed  her  mind,  her  person,  her 
society,  and  her  home  ;  there  was  admirable  "  fitness,"  consequently,  in  all  she  said 
and  did.  She  not  only  received  at  her  house  a  very  large  number  of  the  leading 
celebrities  of  Europe  and  America  ;  her  correspondence  extended  over  many  years 
with  leading  men  of  science,  art,  and  letters.  Her  "receptions"  can  never 
be  forgotten  by  those  who  were  of  them.  It  is  true  few  women  were  encountered 
there.  I  can  recall  none  but  her  sister.  Lady  Canterbury  ;  another  sister,  much 
younger,  married  to  a  French  count — the  Count  de  St.  Marsault;  and  her  two  nieces, 
one  of  whom,  her  namesake,  a  young  lady  of  many  accomplishments,  and  the  author 
of  several  meritorious  books,  died  recently — in  1868 — and  the  other  died,  I  believe 


S/I^    THOMAS  LA  WHENCE.  405 


in  1872.*  I  once  saw  "the  Guiccioli"  there  :  she  was  short  and  stout;  her  bust  and 
her  head  disproportionately  large  ;  her  hair  rather  red  than  auburn  ;  and  her  com- 
plexion en  suite.  She  seemed  far  more  animal  than  intellectual,  with  nothing 
romantic  about  her,  and  by  no  means  suggestive  of  the  Love  of  a  Poet.  I  saw  her 
afterwards  in  Paris,  the  wife  of  the  Marquis  de  Bussy.  She  was  not  much  changed ; 
years  had  made  in  her  manner  and  appearance  very  little  of  the  alteration  that  years 
usually  bring. 

Enter  when  you  would  the  beautifully-arranged  drawing-room  of  Lady  Blessington, 
with  its  gorgeous  furnishing,  resplendent  lights,  ample  mirrors,  and  all  the  acces- 
sories of  value  and  taste,  some  one  you  were  sure  to  meet  who  was  a  Memory 
thenceforward.  The  list  of  her  guests,  taking  any  one  of  her  "evenings,"  would 
comprise  nearly  all  the  leading  men  of  the  time — Earl  Grey,  Lord  Durham,  Lord 
Brougham,  the  "Iron  Duke"  occasionally,!  the  elder  and  the  younger  Disraeli,]: 
Walter  Savage  Landor,  Edwin  Landseer,  James  Smith,  John  Gait,  "  Barry  Corn- 
wall," Thomas  Moore,  Campbell,  Lord  Lytton  and  Sir  Henry  Lytton  Bulwer,  Dr. 
William  Beattie,  CoUey  Grattan — a  number  of  names  crowd  upon  my  memory  as  I 
write — statesmen,  lawyers,  artists,  men  of  letters,  and  foreigners  of  all  countries. 
The  Emperor  Napoleon  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  frequent  guest,  and  here  I  have  met 
him  more  than  once  when  there  seemed  little  prospect  indeed  that  the  silent,  appa- 
rently ungenial,  and  seemingly  unintellectual  man,  who  usually  occupied  a  neglected 
corner,  would  fill  the  jJ^'emier  role  on  the  great  stage  of  the  world. 

Of  her  many  portraits,  that  painted  by  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence  presents  her  in  her 
full  beauty  of  matured  youth  ;  it  was  one  of  the  happiest  of  his  pictures — the  charm- 
ing subject  inspired  his  pencil. § 


A  word  I  may  say  here  of  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence,  so  long  the  Court  painter. 
Although  born  in  a  very  humble  station,  he  was  a  perfect  gentleman,  a  courtier  who 
seemed  in  his  proper  place  when  the  associate  of  the  sovereigns  he  painted.  His 
personal  appearance  was  greatly  in  his  favour :  his  head  was  bald  and  remarkably 
fine,  the  intellectual  faculties  strongly  marked.  He  reminded  me  always  of  another 
great  man — George  Canning;  but  Canning  was  much  taller,  evidencing  larger 
capacity  and  more  indomitable  will.  I  think  I  never  saw  so  grand  a  head  and  so 
manly  a  form  in  combination.  Perhaps  something  of  the  exceeding  refinement  of 
Sir  Thomas  Lawrence  may  have  been  derived  from  intercourse  with  the  upper  classes; 
but  grace  and  persuasive  courtesy  were  natural  to  him ;  they  spoke  in  his  person  and 
in  his  manners,  no  less  than  in  his  art.     He  had  the  happy  and  enviable  gift  of 

*  These  young  ladies  were  the  daughters  of  Lady  Blessington's  brother,  Colonel  Power.  Marguerite,  who 
published  both  prose  and  poetry,  possessed  considerable  personal  attractions,  and  was  respected  and  beloved  by  ail 
who  knew  her. 

+  Lady  Blessington  had  a  marvellous  talking  crow,  which  used  greatly  to  amuse  the  Duke  by  uttering  the  words 
"  Up  and  at 'em !"  a  sentence  the  bird  had  been  taught.  ,        .  , 

t  Lady  Blessington  said  to  N.  P.  Willis,  "It  would  have  delighted  you  to  see  the  old  man  s  pnde  m  hira,  and. 
the  son's  respect  and  affection  for  the  father."  "  The  elder,"  adds  Willis,  "  is  courtly,  urb.ine,  and  impresses  you  at 
once  with  confidence  in  his  goodness."  In  1835  Lady  Blessington  anticipated  the  future  greatness  ot  the  leader  of 
the  great  party  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  now  the  Prime  Minister. 

}  The  engraving  at  the  head  of  this  Memory  is  from  a  drawing  by  Sir  Edwin  Landseer,  copies  of  which  she  gave 
to  her  friends ;  one  of  them  to  us. 


4o6  MEMORIES. 


making  a  plain  woman  handsome,  and  a  handsome  woman  beautiful,  while  preserving 
a  striking  accuracy  of  resemblance.  If  he  was  a  flatterer,  I  believe  it  was  his  mind 
that  saw  the  charms  he  pictured. 

Haydon  said  "  his  bloom  was  the  bloom  of  the  perfumer."  But  the  querulous 
artist,  who  was  not  his  friend,  adds  that,  "  as  a  man,  he  was  amiable,  kind,  generous, 
and  forgiving  ;  he  had  smiled  so  often  and  so  long,  that  at  last  his  smile  had  the 
appearance  of  being  set  in  enamel  !  "  The  annual  income  of  Lawrence  was  between 
dB10,000  and  £15,000  a  year,  yet  he  was  always  in  embarrassed  circumstances, 
realising  the  adage — 

"He  who  goes  a- borrowing',  goes  a-sorrowing." 

In  January,  1830,  he  died,  and  was  buried  in  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Paul.  His  pall- 
bearers were  the  Earls  of  Aberdeen,  Gower,  and  Clanwilliam,  Lord  Dover,  Sir  Eobert 
Peel,  Sir  George  Murray,  John  Wilson  Croker,  and  Hart  Davis,  to  each  and  all  of 
whom  his  pencil  had  given  immortality. 

"  Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalise  ! " 


I  have  said  that  I  desire  to  treat  of  Lady  Blessington  with  reference  only  to  her 
literary  position.  She  was  for  many  years  continually  before  the  public,  ministering 
in  various  ways  to  its  enjoyment  and  to  its  information,  and  all  her  books  are  based 
on  sound  morality  and  high  and  upright  principles.  It  is  not,  however,  requisite 
that  I  should  entirely  ignore  the  circumstances  that  limited  her  intercourse  to  those 
who  were  not  of  her  own  sex.  I  believe  that  man  may  feel  for  woman  an  affection 
as  pure  from  sensuality  as  any  affection  he  can  feel  for  man ;  that  pure  friendship 
may  exist  between  man  and  woman — such  as  God,  "  from  whom  no  secrets  are  hid," 
approves,  and  which  the  world  would  sanction  if  it  could  see  into  the  heart  and 
mind.  But  it  is  not  enough  for  a  woman  to  he  pure — she  must  also  seem,  to  be  so ; 
her  conscience  may  be  as  white  as  snow,  but  if  she  give  scope  to  slander,  and 
weight  to  calumny,  her  offence  is  great ;  she  taints  those  who  are  influenced  by 
example,  and  i'enders  vice  excusable  in  the  estimate  of  those  whose  disposition  is 
for  evil. 

It  is  certain  that  the  earlier  years  of  Lady  Blessington's  career  fixed  her  position 
during  all  her  after  life.  Those  who  knew  her  and  admired  and  esteemed  her — and 
there  were  many  such,  wise,  upright,  and  good — no  doubt  lamented  that  the  penalty 
society  exacts  was  the  penalty  she  had  to  pay.  But  may  I  not  say — now  that  she 
has  been  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  removed  from  the  judgment  of  man  to 
that  of  God — may  I  not  say  this  ?  Those  who  shut  the  door  and  refuse  admission 
to  such  as  crave  entrance  through  the  strait  gate  and  into  the  nariow  way,  incur  the 
guilt  of  compelling  continuance  in  wrong.  It  is  atonement  when  there  is  earnest  and 
devout  desire  to  be  led  back  into  the  fold — the  sighing  of  a  contrite  heart.  The 
"joy  in  the  presence  of  the  angels  of  God  "  is  not  for  the  "just  persons  who  need 
no  repentance." 


LADY  BLESSINGTON.  40; 


No  doubt  the  retrospect  of  a  Past  perpetually  haunted  Lady  Blessington  ;  it  was 
the  draught  in  which  the  poison-drop  was  ever  infused,  though  the  bowl  was  so 
often  wreathed  with  flowers.  There  are  other  Yalleys  of  the  Shadow  of  Death 
besides  that  which  leads  to  the  grave. 

I  may  adopt  the  sentiment  expressed  by  Mrs.  Hall  in  a  letter  written  by  her  in 
1854  to  the  biographer  of  Lady  Blessington,  Dr.  Madden  : — 

"I  have  no  means  of  knowing  whetlier  what  the  world  said  of  Lady  Blessington  was  true  or 
false;  but  of  this  I  am  sure — that  God  intended  her  to  he  good,  and  that  there  was  a  deep-seated 
good  intent  in  whatever  she  did,  or  wrote,  that  came  under  my  observation." 


SYDNEY   SMITH. 

T  is  a  pleasant  task  to  write  of  one  whose  history  is  as  a  sound  of 
trumpets  mingled  with  the  music  of  joy-bells— the  Eev.  Sydney  Smith, 
whose  profound  learning  and  brilliant  wit  made  him  the  delight  of  so 
many  circles — the  highest  in  rank  and  the  loftiest  in  mind. 

I  have  been  often  cheered  by  what  Talfourd  calls  his  "  cordial  and 
triumphant  laugh  ;"  and  I  have  heard  him  preach  one  of  those  mar- 
vellous sermons  which,  manifesting  a  power  infinitely  higher  than 
mere  eloquence,  convinced  the  understanding,  informed  the  mind,  and 
purified  the  heart. 

I  have  known  other  witty  clergymen,  men  who,  perhaps,  orna- 
mented the  Church  rather  as  gargoyles  than  pillars  by  which  it  is  at 
once  sustained  and  decorated  ;  but  no  such  idea  ever  associated  itself  in  my  mind 
with  Sydney  Smith,  either  in  private  or  in  public,  although  his  talk  may  have  been 
in  the  one  case — as  some  one  has  said  of  him — "  a  torrent  of  wit,  fun,  nonsense, 
pointed  remark,  just  observation,  and  happy  illustration,"  and  in  the  other  a  col- 
lection of  quaint  comparisons,  strange  similes,  and  sparkling  epigrams,  which  some- 
times startled  a  congregation  accustomed  to  the  ordinary  routine  of  declamation  or 
dullness. 

Sydney  Smith  was  of  portly  figure,  stout,  indeed  clumsy,  with  a  healthy  look 
and  a  self-enjoying  aspect.  He  was  rapid  in  movements  as  well  as  in  words,  and 
evidently  studied  ease  more  than  dignity.  In  his  youth  a  college  friend  used  to  say 
to  him,  "  Sydney,  your  sense,  wit,  and  clumsiness  always  give  me  the  idea  of  an 
Athenian  carter;"  and  certainly  in  his  age  those  who  saw  or  conversed  with  him 
as  a  stranger  would  have  little  thought  that  he  was  a  dignitary  of  the  Church  and  a 
Canon  of  St.  Paul's. 

As  he  was  one  of  the  wittiest  so  was  he  one  of  the  soundest,  as  he  was  one  of 
the  wisest  so  was  he  one  of  the  best,  of  men.  His  censure  was  always  generous,  his 
sentences  ever  just.  Prudent,  considerate,  charitable,  and  humane,  he  was  the  very 
opposite  of  those  professional  wits  who  seldom  speak  except  to  stab  ;  of  those  political 
reformers  who  have  no  toleration  for  virtue — in  adversaries  ;  of  those  social  amelio- 
rators who  are  good  Samaritans  in  words,  omitting  only  the  penny  and  the  oil  at  the 
inn  and  by  the  wayside. 

Society  is  full  of  anecdotes  of  his  brilliant  wit,  and  there  are  none  of  his  friends, 
or  even  acquaintances,  who  did  not  possess  a  gem  or  two  that  had  fallen  from  his 
lips.     One  of  his  ready  replies  may  serve  as  a  sample.     It  is  said  that  Landseer 


SYDNEY  SMITH. 


409 


proposed  to  him  to  sit  for  his  portrait.  The  proposal  was  met  by  the  memorable 
answer  of  King  Hazael  to  the  prophet  Elisha,— "  Is  thy  servant  a  dog,  that  he  should 
do  this  thing."*' 

It  will  be  easy  to  imagine  that  by  common-place  people  he  was  much  misunder- 
stood. The  buoyancy  of  his  great  heart  was  mistaken  for  levity,  and  the  odd 
manner  in  which  he  sometimes  put  things  for  irreverence.  As  illustrations  I  may 
quote  the  words  which  it  is  said  gave  offence  to  a  "serious"  and  venerable  lady 
one  fine  summer  morning — "  Open  the  shutters,  and  let  us  glorify  the  room;"  the 
sudden  shock  sustained  by  a  sensitive  woman  of  uncertain  age,  when  the  month  of 
June  made  the  noonday  sultry — "  Let  us  take  off"  our  flesh  and  sit  in  our  bones  ;  " 
the  terror  of  another  lady  when  he  told  her  he  chained  up  his  big  Newfoundland  dog 
because  he  had  a  passion  for  breakfasting  on  parish  boys.  Reading  memories  of 
him,  one  almost  ceases  to  wonder  at  the  alarm  expressed  in  the  features  of  the 
simple  gentleman  who  actually  heard  from  Mr.  Smith  himself  that  he  had  an  intense 
desire  to  "  roast  a  Quaker,"  and  may  fancy  the  terror  of  juvenile  delinquents  brought 
before  him  when  he  exclaimed,  "John,  bring  me  my  private  gallows!"  His  joke 
has  been  told  in  many  ways — of  the  advice  he  sent  to  the  Bishop  of  New  Zealand 
not  to  object  to  the  cold  curate  and  roasted  rector  on  the  sideboard,  hoping  he  would 
disagree  with  the  man  who  ate  himself.  It  is  not  difiicult  to  picture  his  face  of 
broad  humour  lit  by  an  internal  laugh  when  the  man  who  was  compounding  a  history 
of  Somersetshire  families  applied  to  him  for  information  concerning  the  Smith  coat 
of  arms,  and  received  this  answer, — "  I  regret,  sir,  I  cannot  contribute  to  so  valuable 
a  work,  but  the  Smiths  never  had  any  arms,  and  invariably  sealed  their  letters  with 
their  thumbs." 

I  shall  not  tire  my  readers  if  I  relate  one  of  his  practical  jokes.  It  is  but  one  of 
many  such.  The  story  is  told  by  his  daughter,  in  her  Memoirs  of  her  father — one 
of  the  best  monuments  ever  placed  by  child  over  a  parent's  grave. t  I  heard  it  long 
before  it  was  written.  The  Vicar  of  Edmonton  was  dead  ;  his  son  had  been  his 
curate ;  and  the  family  were  preparing  to  leave  the  house  that  was  endeared  to  them 
by  holy  memories  and  happy  associations.  It  is  a  melancholy  fate  to  which  the 
families  of  most  clergymen  are  subjected  ;  for  it  is  rarely  indeed  that  out  of  a  narrow 
income,  with  numerous  responsibilities,  money  has  been  saved  to  obtain  another. 
While  they  were  grieving — hopelessly  and  fruitlessly,  as  it  seemed — enters  the 
Canon  of  St.  Paul's  ;  present,  the  son  and  three  delicate  daughters.  The  widow 
was  ill — ill  of  sorrow  gone  and  sorrow  to  come.  Mr.  Smith  began  by  asking  the 
character  of  a  servant  who  was  leaving  them,  making  that  appear  as  a  motive  for  his 
visit.  After  a  while  he  said, — "  It  is  my  duty  to  tell  you  that  I  have  given  away 
the  living  of  Edmonton,  and  I  am  sure  the  new  vicar  will  appoint  his  own  curate." 
There  was  a  mournful  look,  but  the  blow  was  expected.  "  Oddly  enough,"  Mr. 
Smith  continued,  "  his  name  is  the  same  as  yours  :  have  you  any  relations  of  that 
name?"     There  was  a  melancholy  answer — "No!"     "By  a  still  more   singular 

*  The  anecdote  is  apocryphal.  It  is  so  like  what  Sydney  Smith  woiild  have  said,  that  it  may  be  attributed  to 
him  without  impropriety. 

t  That  excellent  lady — Lady  Holland— died  in  Italy  towards  the  close  of  the  year  1866.  She  was  the  wife  of  the 
eminent  physician,  Dr.  Henry  Holland,  to  whom  she  was  married  in  1834  ;  and  Dr.  Holland  is  now  of  the  "  departed." 


4IO        ,  MEMORIES. 

coincidence  his  Christian  name  is  the  same — Thomas  Tate  :"  hope  passed  into  the 
group.  "  In  fact,"  said  he,  "  there  is  no  use  in  mincing  the  matter — you  are  the 
Thomas  Tate  and  Yicar  of  Edmonton."  They  burst  into  tears,  cried  from  excess  of 
joy,  and  the  burly  Canon  of  St.  Paul's  wept  with  them — happy  tears,  mingled  with 
merry  laughter ! 

My  knowledge  of  Sydney  Smith  was  limited ;  I  met  him  only  in  society.  I 
recall  with  exceeding  pleasure  one  especial  evening  at  the  house  of  Mrs.  Wilson,  the 
sister  of  Maria  Edgeworth,  when  Maria  was  one  of  the  guests  ;  and  among  them, 
prominent  no  less  by  grandeur  of  form  than  by  lofty  repute,  was  "  classic  Hallam," 
who  honoured  the  profession  of  letters  not  alone  by  genius  ever  usefully  employed, 
but  by  the  rectitude  that  characterised  his  whole  life.  On  that  evening  Sydney 
Smith  was  in  high  health  and  spirits ;  his  laugh  was  heard,  yet  not  obtrusively,  in 
all  parts  of  the  room,  and  was  continually  echoed  by  the  crowd  always  about  him. 
He  certainly  illustrated,  on  that  occasion,  a  passage  I  find  in  his  Memoirs, — "He 
was  sometimes  mad  with  spirits,  and  must  talk,  laugh — or  burst." 

Sydney  Smith  was  born  at  Woodford,  Essex,  on  the  3rd  of  June,  1771,  and 
inherited  talent  as  well  as  "  great  animal  spirits  "  from  his  father  ;  it  may  be  added 
eccentricities  also,  for  Mr.  Robert  Smith  was  not  only  "a  man  of  singular  natural 
gifts,  but  "  odd  by  nature,  and  still  more  odd  by  design."*  The  mother  of  Sydney 
was  the  daughter  of  a  French  emigrant,  and  to  this  "  infusion  of  French  blood"  he 
"  used  to  attribute  a  little  of  his  constitutional  gaiety." 

He  received  his  early  education  at  a  school  in  Southampton,  was  sent  thence  to 
Winchester,  and  thence  to  New  College,  Oxford.  He  entered  the  Church  against 
his  inclination,  but  in  deference  to  the  wishes  of  his  father,  and  in  1794  became 
curate  in  "a  small  village  called  Netherhaven,  in  the  midst  of  Salisbury  Plain." 
Here  he  was,  according  to  the  description  he  afterwards  gave  of  a  country  curate, 
"  the  poor  working  man  of  God— a  learned  man  in  a  hovel,  good  and  patient — the 
first  and  poorest  pauper  of  the  hamlet,  yet  showing  that  in  the  midst  of  worldly 
misery  he  has  the  heart  of  a  gentleman,  the  spirit  of  a  Christian,  and  the  kindness  of 
a  pastor." 

It  was  in  1802  he  projected  with  Brougham  and  Jeifrey  the  Edinburgh  Review, 
of  which  he  says  he  was  the  first  editor — such,  in  fact,  he  was,  although  the  editing 
amounted  to  little  more  than  looking  with  his  colleagues  through  the  few  MSS. 
proffered  by  "  strangers."  Smith  was  then  in  the  thirty-first  year  of  his  age,  and  in 
straitened  circumstances,  having  lived  chiefly  by  an  income  derived  from  the  care  of 
pupils,  i 

After  removing  from  Edinburgh  in  1803,  he  settled  in  Doughty  Street,  London, 
and  received  from  the  Lord  Chancellor  Erskine  the  small  living  of  Foston-le-Clay 
in  Yorkshire, :[  where  "  there  had  not  been  a  resident  clergyman  for  one  hundred 


•  Mr.  Smith  writes  of  his  "  father,  whose  neckcloth  always  looked  like  a  pudding -cloth  tied  round  his  neck  and 
the  arrangement  of  whose  garments  seemed  more  the  result  of  accident  than  design."  ' 

t  When  he  removed  his  family  to  his  living  in  Yorkshire,  he  was  enabled  to  do  so  by  the  proceeds  arising  from 
the  sale  of  two  volumes  of  sermons. 

i  On  Smith's  thanking  Lord  Erskine  for  this  poor  patronage,  the  Chancellor  said  he  had  notliing  to  thank  him 
for :  he  had  given  it  to  oblige  Lady  Holland,  and  if  she  had  asked  it  for  the  devil,  the  devil  must  have  had  it. 


SYDNEY  SMITH.  411 


and  fifty  years."  Troubles  of  a  different  nature  here  began.  He  was,  as  he  says, 
"  -without  knowing  a  turnip  from  a  carrot,  compelled  to  farm  three  hundred  acres, 
and,  without  capital,  to  build  a  parsonage-house."  The  good-humour  and  true 
Christian  philosophy  with  which  he  set  about  his  task  among  a  rude  people  supply 
beautiful  evidences  of  the  soundness  of  his  nature  ;  and  well  may  his  daughter  say 
that  in  their  half-finished  and  half-furnished  house,  when  they  took  possession  of  it, 
they  were  "  the  happiest,  merriest,  and  busiest  family  in  Christendom." 

The  Whigs,  of  whom  he  had  so  long  been  the  oracle  and  champion,  did  nothing 
for  him  until,  in  1831,  Lord  Grey  gave  him  a  prebend's  stall  in  St.  Paul's.  They 
had  talked  of  making  him  a  bishop,  and  it  is  said  that  Lord  Melbourne,  when  out  of 
oflace,  regretted  the  neglect  to  which  Smith  had  been  subjected.  To  the  Tory  Chan- 
cellor Lyndhurst  he  had  been  indebted  for  the  better  living  of  Combe  Florey,  near 
Taunton,  to  which  he  removed  in  1828,  making  it  "  one  of  the  most  comfortable  and 
delightful  of  parsonages,"  and  by  that  noble  and  learned  lord  he  was  promoted  to  a 
prebend's  stall  at  Bristol. 

He  died  on  the  22nd  of  February,  1845,  and  was  buried  in  the  cemetery  at 
Kensal  Green.  There  were  many  who  might  have  written,  as  wrote  the  stern  critic, 
Jeffrey,  on  hearing  of  his  death — "  The  real  presence  of  my  beloved  and  incompar- 
able friend  was  so  brought  before  me,  in  all  his  brilliancy,  benevolence,  and  flashing 
decision,  that  I  seemed  again  to  hear  his  voice,  and  burst  into  an  agony  of  crying." 
He  had  many  other  friends  who  dearly  loved  him,  and  he  was  the  idol  of  his  own 
household. 

The  good  man  "  met  death  with  a  calmness  which  the  memory  of  a  well-spent 
life,  and  trust  in  the  mercy  of  God,  can  alone  give,"  "  at  peace  with  himself  and 
with  all  the  world  ;  "  and  his  epitaph  records  "  his  unostentatious  benevolence,  his 
fearless  love  of  truth,  and  his  labours  to  promote  the  happiness  of  mankind  by 
religious  toleration,  and  by  rational  freedom." 

I  have  described  the  personal  appearance  of  Sydney  Smith.  It  was  certainly  not 
dignified;  it  was,  in  a  word,  "jolly."  There  was  a  roll  in  his  gait  when  in  the 
pulpit,  which  an  unfriendly  observer  might  have  described  as  "  rollicking,"  and  in 
general  society  his  chief  object  seemed  to  be  "  fun."  But  always  a  listening  throng 
kept  pace  with  his  movements  about  a  room.  There  was  wit,  but  there  was  a 
smack  of  philosophy  in  every  sentence  he  uttered  :  while  in  the  pulpit  one  forgot  a 
certain  ungainly  awkwardness  of  manner,  not  alone  because  of  the  homage  paid  to 
acknowledged  genius,  but  because  of  the  sound,  practical,  and  yet  solemn  view  he 
took  of  the  cause  of  which  he  was  the  advocate,  and  perhaps  his  exhortations  and 
denunciations  received  augmented  weight  from  the  conviction  that  you  heard  a  man 
of  profound  learning  defending  and  propagating  the  truths  of  the  Gospel,  in  which 
he  himself  had  full  and  entire  faith. 

Though,  at  times,  "the  exuberance  of  his  fancy  showed  itself  in  the  most  fantastic 
images  and  most  ingenious  absurdities,  till  his  hearers  became  as  fatigued  as  himself 
with  the  merriment  they  excited,"  there  was  never  either  word  or  look  of  vulgarity. 
"Ludicrous"  he  may  have  been  often,  but  coarse  never;  good-humoured  even  in 
his  severest  moods,  generous  and  sympathising  always. 


4X2  MEMORIES. 

Macaulay  pronounced  him  the  greatest  master  of  ridicule  that  has  appeared  since 
the  days  of  Swift  ;  but  he  no  more  resembled  the  witty  Dean  than  he  did  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Cambray.  The  ridicule  of  Swift  was  slime  and  filth.  In  the  writings  of 
Smith  "  there  is  not  a  single  line  that  might  not  be  placed  before  the  purity  of 
youth,  or  that  is  unfit  for  the  eye  of  a  woman."  "  Never,"  writes  Mrs.  Austin, 
'■'■  was  wit  so  little  addressed  to  the  malignant,  base,  or  impure  passions  of  mankind." 
That  accomplished  lady,  who  edited  his  "Letters,"  and  knew  him  intimately,  testifies 
also  to  "  his  noble  qualities,  his  courage  and  magnanimity,  his  large  humanity,  his 
scorn  of  all  meanness  and  all  imposture,  his  rigid  obedience  to  duty."  .  ..."  He 
regarded  Christianity  as  a  religion  of  peace,  and  joy,  and  comfort  " — believing  it  to 
be  "  the  highest  duty  of  a  clergyman  to  subdue  religious  hatreds  and  spread  religious 
peace  and  toleration  ;  "  dreading,  as  the  greatest  of  all  evils,  that  the  "  golden  chain," 
which  he  describes  as  "reaching  from  earth  to  heaven,  should  be  injured  either  by 
fanaticism  or  scepticism."*  His  "  Toleration  "  is  conveyed  not  only  by  his  famous 
**  Essay,"  but  by  one  of  his  sermons,  when  he  borrowed  that  beautiful  apologue 
from  Jeremy  Taylor,  illustrating  charity  and  toleration,  where  Abraham,  rising  in 
wrath  to  put  the  wayfaring  man  forth  for  refusing  to  worship  the  Lord  his  God, 
the  voice  of  the  Lord  was  heard  in  the  tent,  saying,  "Abraham,  Abraham!  have  I 
borne  with  this  man  for  threescore  years  and  ten,  and  canst  thou  not  bear  with  him 
for  one  hour  ?" 

Mr.  Hayward,  who  reviewed  his  "  Life  "  in  the  Edinburgh  Eeview,  claims  for 
him  high  rank  as  a  public  benefactor,  and  speaks  of  his  ^'incidental  and  subordinate 
character  of  wit."  He  was  undoubtedly  a  great,  "  moral,  social,  and  political 
reformer,"  and  led  the  age  in  which  he  lived.  He  "  encouraged  social  pleasure 
and  a  rational  taste  for  social  enjoyment  ;"  he  was  "free  of  envy,  hatred,  and  all 
uncharitableness  ; "  the  intrepid  enemy  of  cant,  and  the  fervid  advocate  of  charity, 
by  precept  and  by  example.  Whether  he  fought  for  truth  alone  or  in  a  crowd  was 
to  him  indifferent ;  but  his  weapons  were  such  as  he  might  have  received  from  an 
archangel,  and  the  wounds  he  gave  were  never  envenomed  by  personality  or  vitu- 
peration. In  a  word,  it  may  be  said  of  him  that,  gifted  with  "  a  giant's  strength," 
like  a  giant  he  never  used  it.  In  person,  in  tongue,  and  in  pen  he  realises  the  best 
idea  of  a  character  thoroughly  English. 


THE   EEY.   THEOBALD   MATHEW. 

Although  perhaps  no  two  were  more  opposite  than  the  Clergyman  I  have  just 
described  and  the  Priest  to  whose  memory  I  tender  affectionate  homage,  I  associate 
them  without  scruple  ;  for  both  did  their  Master's  work  on  earth,  and  both  were 
essentially  good  men. 

*  Some  idea  of  his  practical  Christianity  may  be  conveyed  by  one  of  his  "  calculations :  "— "  When  you  rise  in 
the  morning  form  a  resolution  to  make  some  one  person  happy  during  the  day.  Look  at  the  result '.  That  is  365  in 
the  course  of  the  year.  Suppose  you  live  forty  years  after  you  commence,  that  is  14,600  human  beings  made  happy 
by  you." 


THE  REV.    THEOBALD  MATHEW.  413 

"  Fathek  Mathew  "  is  an  exceptional  case  in  this  book;  he  was  neither 
author  nor  artist ;  but  he  was  one  of  the  mightiest  of  the  social  ameliorators  of  the 
age — one  who  laid  the  foundation  of  a  reform  in  Ireland  second  only  to  that  accom- 
plished by  Christianity.  For  I  strongly  deny  that  his  work  has  produced  no  per- 
manent effect  in  that  country,  although  I  admit  that  very  much  of  his  influence  has 
evaporated,  and  that  the  curse  of  drink  is  still  paramount  there.  It  has  done 
this  at  least — that  which  was  formerly  a  glory  is  now  a  degradation.  The  sin 
of  drunkenness  was  rather  an  honour  than  a  shame  before  the  Crusade  of  the 
Capuchin  friar  was  commenced  in  Cork,  in  1838;  it  has  become  a  shame  and  a 
reproach,  not  alone  among  the  peasantry  and  the  lower  classes  of  the  towns,  but 
among  the  gentry — the  high  born  and  high  bred  and  the  "  squireens." 

Those  who  knew  Ireland — as  I  did — between  sixty  and  seventy  years  ago — for  I 
was  there  when  very  young — will  have  no  difficulty  in  contrasting  its  condition 
then  with  its  condition  now,  and  receiving  thence  many  causes  for  thankfulness. 
Although  but  one  topic  may  be  freely  associated  with  this  Memory,  I  cannot  forbear 
stating  that,  in  1820,  Ireland  was  depressed  and  oppressed  by  Protestant  ascendency; 
it  was  then  the  tyrant  it  had  long  ceased  to  be  ere  the  Church  of  England  in  Ireland 
was  "  relieved  "  of  connection  with  the  State  ;  and  if  England  had  for  centuries 
treated  Ireland  as  a  conquered  country,  the  English  had  been  convinced  of  the 
impolicy  and  impiety  of  such  a  course,  and  had  resolutely  set  themselves  the  task 
of  atoning  for  the  past  by  a  system  of  equity  for  the  future.  How  far  that  system 
has  "  answered  "  it  is  no  part  of  my  business  here  to  inquire ;  but  of  a  surety  the 
present  generation  is  only  responsible  for  the  wisdom  that  dictated  justice. 

Drunkenness  was  (and  I  fear  is)  the  bane  of  Ireland.  The  Rev.  Theobald 
Mathew  did  not  originate  the  Temperance  Pledge  ;  it  had  been  taken  and  adminis- 
tered, some  time  previous  to  his  adoption  of  it,  by  a  few  benevolent  persons  who 
were  Protestants.  Leaders  among  them  were  the  Rev.  George  Carr  (a  near  connec- 
tion of  Mrs.  Hall's),  of  New  Ross,  and  a  Quaker  named  Martin.  They  made  some, 
though  but  little,  way,  when  Mr.  Mathew  took  the  cause  in  hand  ;  and  God  pros- 
pered it. 

I  recall  him  to  memory  as  he  was  then  ;  but  I  cannot  do  better  than  copy  the 
portrait  I  drew  of  him  at  that  time,  when  he  was  in  the  zenith  of  health  and  power,* 
and  when  the  result  of  his  work  was,  in  pure  truth,  a  miracle ;  for  the  number  of 
his  converts  was  counted  not  by  hundreds,  but  by  millions : — 

"  The  expression  of  his  countenance  is  peculiarly  mild  and  gracious,  his  manner  is  persuasive, 
simple,  and  easy,  without  a  shadow  of  affectation,  and  his  voice  is  low  and  musical  — '  such  as 
moves  men.'  A  man  more  naturally  fitted  to  obtain  influence  over  a  people  easily  led  and  pro- 
verbially swayed  by  the  affections  we  have  never  encountered.  No  man  has  borne  his  honours 
more  meekly,  encountered  opposition  with  greater  gentleness  and  forbearance,  or  disarmed  hostility 
by  weapons  better  suited  to  a  Christian.  His  age  is  about  fifty,  but  he  looks  younger  ;  his  frame 
is  strong,  evidently  calculated  to  endure  great  fatigue  ;  and  his  aspect  is  that  of  established  health 
— a  serviceable  illustration  of  the  practical  value  of  his  system.  He  is  somewhat  above  the  middle 
size;  his  features  are  handsome  as  well  as  expressive." 


"  Ireland ;  its  Scenery  and  Character."    By  Mr.  and  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall.    1841. 


414  MEMORIES. 


When  I  wrote  that,  I  was  not  personally  acquainted  with  the  estimable  Roman 
Catholic  priest,  nor  had  I  many  opportunities  afterwards  of  intimacy  with  him  : 
although  I  made  frequent  visits  subsequently  to  Ireland,  he  was  generally  engaged 
m  some  mission,  and  I  rarely  saw  him.  The  impression  he  left  on  my  mind,  how- 
ever, endured  to  the  close  of  his  life,  and  few  men  have  lived  whom  I  more  entirely 
honour,  reverence,  and  love. 

He  was  born  at  Thomastown,  on  the  10th  of  October,  1790,  and  died  at  Queens- 
town,  Cork,  on  the  8th  of  December,  1856—"  the  Martyr  as  well  as  the  Apostle  of 
Temperance." 

In  the  year  1876  I  offered  respectful  homage  to  the  statue  (one  of  Foley's  works) 
of  the  good  man  in  the  City  of  Cork. 


FEEDEEIKA   BEEMEE. 


^E  enjoyed  not  only  the  acquaintance  but  the  friendship 

of  this  most  estimable  lady,  and  saw  much  of  her  during 

her  residence  in  London,  when  she  was  for  some  time  our 

guest.     Alas  !  it  was  not  long  before  she  left  earth  ;  but  she 

had   done    much   good ;    was   always   earnest,    ardent,   and 

faithful  in  the  cause  of  God  and  man  ;  thoroughly  pious  and 

entirely  benevolent ;  and  her  books  will  long  live  and  be 

valued,  not  only  in  Sweden,  but  in  England,  where  they  are 

well  known  and  appreciated,  chiefly  through  the  admirable 

^l     translations  of  her  friend  and  fellow-labourer,  Mary  Howitt. 

She  was  born  in  1801,  and  died  in  1865.     Her  death  was  a  loss  not  only  to  her 

own  country,  but  to  all  mankind.     She  was  of  delicate  frame,  yet  she  travelled  much 

and  wrote  much  ;  leading  a  very  active  and  energetic,  as  well  as  useful,  life,  from  an 

early  period  to  its  close. 

Not  long  after  her  death  Mrs.  Hall  wrote  a  Memory  of  her  in  the  Art-Journal, 
and  that  Memory  I  adopt. 


Another  golden  bowl  broken  !  another  of  the  world's  literary  workers  gone  home  I 
It  is  a  loss  to  earth  for  which  we  may  really  grieve.  Frederika  Bremer  was  no 
common  labourer  ;  her  mission  was  to  do  good  ;  and  her  task  here  is  finished.  Her 
energy  and  perseverance  ;  her  knowledge,  acquired  rather  from  observation  than 
from  books ;  her  extensive  sympathy,  not  so  much  with  her  class  and  country  as 
with  humanity ;  her  close  association  with  genuine  progress — all  rendered  her  of 
vast  importance,  not  only  as  an  author,  but  as  a  leader  among  women.  She  was 
not,  according  to  the  vulgar  idea,  "  a  rights-of-woman  woman,"  but  she  was  deeply 
anxious  for  the  emancipation  of  her  sex,  in  her  own  land,  from  the  heavy  thraldom, 
the  absolute  hard  bodily  labour,  to  which  they  have  been  doomed  so  long ;  and  to 
know  that  they  enjoyed  the  privileges  of  occasional  rest  and  ease,  with  opportunities 
for  cultivating  their  minds  so  as  to  render  them  less  the  slaves  and  more  the  com- 
panions of  their  husbands,  the  early  teachers  as  well  as  the  mothers  of  Swedish 
men — to  know  this,  and  to  believe  that  by  her  aid  the  "  great  glory  "  had  been 
helped  on,  would  have  gilded  the  evening  of  her  days  with  intense  happiness — did 
so,  no  doubt. 

Our  valued  and  excellent  friend  Mary  Howitt  introduced  Miss  Bremer  to  the 
British  public  by  her  translation  of  "The  Neighbours;"  a  translation  which  Miss 


4i6  MEMORIES. 


1 


Bremer  herself  told  me  was  "  faultless,"  Almost  suddenly  she  entered  into  our 
hearts  and  homes,  as  a  sister  who,  though  brought  up  in  a  distant  land,  with  habits 
and  thoughts  not  ours,  was  our  "little  sister"  still — a  darling,  with  open  heart  and 
beaming  eyes,  and  lips  dropping  sweetness — the  sweetness  of  innocence  and  content ; 
her  hands  loving  work ;  her  head  wise  with  womanly  wisdom  ;  and  altogether  laden 
with  a  freight  of  fresh  air  and  healthfulness  of  which  I  delight  to  think.  Miss 
Bremer  continued  to  write,  and  Mrs.  Howitt  to  translate,  various  tales  and  sketches 
of  Swedish  life  of  more  or  less  importance,  but  all  fresh  and  new  to  us ;  and  we 
looked  for  her  latest  book  as  anxiously  as  if  she  were  one  of  our  own  native  story- 
tellers. 

Her  first  visit  to  England  was  brief  and  rapid.  She  had  determined  to  travel, 
alone  or  not,  as  it  might  be,  and  took  England  only  cm  route;  she  panted  for  know- 
ledge ;  and  resolved  to  see  and  judge  for  herself  of  the  habits  and  institutions  of 
many  lands.  It  was  after  her  extensive  wandering,  and  during  her  second  visit  to 
England,  that  we  had  the  happiness  to  receive  her  as  our  guest  at  our  country-house. 
We  never  had  a  more  interesting  or  amusing  visitor ;  she  stipulated  that  she  was  to 
breakfast  in  her  own  room — chiefly  on  potatoes — and  not  to  be  disturbed  until  two 
o'clock.  During  that  time,  from  early  morn  until  the  appointed  hour,  she  wrote, 
and  then  came  down  to  lunch,  full  of  the  life  and  spirit  which  the  consciousness  of  a 
task  accomplished  is  sure  to  give. 

She  was  very  small  and  delicately  proportioned — not  unlike  Maria  Edgeworth  in 
form,  and  somewhat  like  her  in  manner,  especially  when  speaking  to  children,  of 
whom  she  was  very  fond  ;  she  could  hardly  pass  a  child  without  a  word  or  a  caress. 
She  could  never  have  been  even  pretty,  in  the  usual  acceptation  of  the  word ;  yet 
her  pleasing  and  even  playful  manners,  her  freedom  from  affectation,  the  warm 
interest  she  took  in  everything  around  her,  certain  quaint,  half  Swedish,  half  English 
expressions,  the  amusing  stores  of  an  excellent  memory,  imparted  a  piquancy  and 
variety  to  her  conversation  that  were  especially  delightful  in  a  country-house.  She 
was  undoubtedly  restless  and  inquisitive  ;  investigating  all  the  domestic  departments 
with  inquiries  which  half  annoyed,  half  amused,  the  servants,  but  giving  quite  as 
much  information  as  she  received.  I  found  she  liked  to  go  by  herself  into  the 
cottages  of  our  village,  and  I  generally  left  her  to  do  as  she  pleased.  After  paying 
two  or  three  visits  she  would  hurry  back  to  me  that  I  might  explain  to  her  what  she 
did  not  understand ;  nothing,  however  trivial,  escaped  her  observation  ;  and,  as  it 
was  the  first  opportunity  she  had  enjoyed  of  investigating  the  "  ways  "  of  a  purely 
English  agricultural  district,  she  felt  and  manifested  deep  interest  in  all  she  saw. 

One  of  our  poor  neighbours,  who  inhabited  a  two-roomed  cottage,  to  which  was 
attached  a  strip  of  garden,  kept  in  neat  order  by  the  woman's  husband  when  his 
day's  work  was  done,  was  not  remarkable  for  internal  neatness  of  arrangement ;  but 
what  would  you  have  ?  The  woman  had  twins  twice  in  one  year.  Miss  Bremer, 
attracted  by  the  four  baby  faces  sleeping  at  the  door  in  the  sunshine,  had  crept  into 
the  cottage  of  the  "  twin  woman,"  as  she  called  her,  but  would  not  believe  that  the 
infants  were  all  her  own.  She  seized  on  the  two  youngest,  placing  one  on  each 
arm,  and  brought  them  rapidly  to  me  to  ascertain  the  truth  of,  the  story,  closely 


FREDERIKA   BREMER.  417 


followed  by  the  mother,  -who  feared  the  good  little  lady  was  slightly  crazed,  and 
could  not  see  what  there  was  to  wonder  at.  It  sorely  troubled  Miss  Bremer  how 
that  cottage-full  of  rosy  children  could  be  brought  up  on  such  small  means.  There 
was  no  end  to  her  inquiries  if  it  was  the  custom  in  English  villages  for  mothers  to 
have  "  multitudes  of  little  babies  all  at  once;"  and  the  "  Addlestone  twins"  had  a 
corner  in  her  well-stored  memory  for  a  long  time  ;  she  alludes  to  the  subject  in  more 
than  one  of  her  letters  to  me. 

Our  residence  was  within  an  easy  drive  of  Virginia  Water,  and  Windsor  afforded 
much  pleasure  to  our  Swedish  visitor.  Virginia  Water,  all  lovely  as  it  is,  seemed  to 
her  more  like  a  water-toy  than  a  real  lake.  Her  taste  for  lake  scenery  had  been 
born  among  the  mountains  and  tors  of  northern  lands.  She  readily  and  gracefully 
yielded  to  us  the  meed  of  beauty  in  cultivation,  but  evidently  considered  us  a  people 
who  possessed  neither  mountain  nor  lake. 

An  earnest  desire  of  her  heart  and  mind  was  to  see  the  Queen — knowing  well 
how  dearly  her  subjects  loved  her.  So  we  drove  off  early  one  day,  determined,  if 
possible,  to  waylay  her  Majesty  when  leaving  the  Castle  for  her  morning  drive.  We 
took  our  stand  with  determined  patience  as  near  the  great  gates  as  propriety  per- 
mitted, and  very  soon,  in  the  well-known  phaeton,  came  forth  the  royal  lady,  seated 
beside  him  whose  loss  was  a  mournful  loss  to  millions.  Miss  Bremer  was  all  quick- 
silver ;  I  could  not  keep  her  on  the  seat — she  would  lean  out  of  the  brougham 
window  and  bow ;  and  thus  the  small  woman — insignificant  as  far  as  appearance 
went  (the  Queen  little  knew  who  it  was  that  rendered  to  her  fervent,  but  perhaps, 
obtrusive,  homage) — attracted  her  Majesty's  attention,  who  bowed  and  smiled  with 
more  than  her  usual  graciousness,  even  slightly  turning  her  head  to  look  at  the 
enthusiastic  lady.  As  she  did  so,  the  brougham  door  flew  open,  and  it  was  with 
difficulty  I  prevented  my  companion  from  falling  out ;  but  her  favourite  umbrella  (a 
venerable  companion  in  many  lands,  and  of  a  colour  that  once  was  red)  was  not  so 
fortunate.  It  rolled  on  the  grass ;  the  Queen's  quick  eye  saw  the  danger  and  the 
escape,  and  moreover  her  Majesty  saw  the  umbrella.  The  royal  carriage  drew  up 
for  a  moment,  the  Prince  spoke,  or  perhaps  only  signed  to  an  attendant  groom,  who 
turned  back,  picked  up  the  umbrella,  and  returned  it  to  my  fluttering  friend. 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  her  delight — she  cried  with  pleasure  ;  the  courtesy 
was  so  marked,  so  graciously  rendered  ;  but  Miss  Bremer  was  as  full  of  loyalty 
almost  as  I  am.  We  were  bowling  homeward  along  the  banks  of  our  beautiful 
Thames  before  her  enthusiasm  subsided.  When  we  got  out  to  visit  Magna  Charta 
Island  it  took  another  turn,  and  burst  forth  in  admiration  of  the  sturdy  English 
barons  who  obliged  the  tardy  king  to  sign  the  record  of  our  rights  on  the  stone, 
which  she  kissed  in  the  spirit  of  reverential  liberty.  I  look  back  on  the  ten  or  dozen 
days  this  indefatigable  worker  and  bright-hearted  woman  spent  with  us  with  intense 
gratitude  and  unmingled  pleasure. 

During  our  residence  in  this  country-house  at  Addlestone,  it  was  our  custom, 
whenever  a  distinguished  guest  visited  us,  to  induce  him  or  her  to  plant  a  tree  on  or 
adjacent  to  the  lawn.  Frederika  Bremer  of  course  planted  one,  and  I  well  remember 
her  burst  of  joy,  that  seemed  like  the  sweet  song  of  a  robin  in  September,  as  she 

E    E 


placed  it  in  the  ground,  and  the  energy  with  which  she  heaped  the  mould  over  the 
roots,  and  gave  it  a  fresh  draught  of  water  in  its  new  dwelling-place.  Ah!  that  day 
is  a  pleasant  memory  to  recall.* 

If  a  thing  of  physical  beauty  is  "a  joy  for  ever"— which  I  feel  and  gratefully 
acknowledge  it  is— how  much  more  joyful  is  the  memory  of  hours  and  days  spent 
with  the  good  and  the  gifted,  an  everlasting  well-spring  of  happiness  !  Her  views 
of  books,  and  places,  and  people— of  religion  and  politics— were  frequently  very 
different  from  mine.  Hers  were  broader,  mine  more  conventional,  it  may  be ;  perhaps 
more  narrow.  She  said  we  did  each  other  good,  and  now  especially,  when  I  feel  we 
shall  never  meet  again  in  this  world,  I  am  glad  to  believe  it  was  so.  Her  nature 
was  brave  and  independent,  and  her  affections  warm  and  true.  Her  published  letters 
to  her  sister  are  wonderful  records  of  tenderness  and  love.  I  knew  how  she  loved 
that  sister,  and  how  she  was  looking  forward  to  meeting  her,  as  her  great  reward  for 
all  the  fatigue  and  discomfort  she  had  endured  during  her  travels.  In  the  happy 
evenings  we  spent  together,  she  was  the  life  of  our  little  circle,  teaching  us  Swedish 
games  and  singing  us  Swedish  songs,  and  every  now  and  then  something  about  her 
sister  would  "  crop  up,"  as  if  she  were  the  living  motive  of  her  thoughts  and  actions. 
Alas  !  at  that  very  time  when  we  looked  into  the  beautiful  valley,  with  its  silver 
streams,  from  the  brow  of  St.  George's  Hill,  and  saw  the  towers  of  Royal  Windsor 
from  its  height,  at  that  very  time  her  beloved  sister  was  dead— dead — at  Stockholm. 
Pleasant  were  their  lives,  and  now  they  are  not  divided.  Death  brought  them  again 
together.  I  dearly  love  and  cherish  the  memory  of  Frederika  Bremer,  one  of  the 
sweetest,  kindliest,  and  truest  women  I  have  ever  known. 

I  add  to  this  Memory  a  few  passages  from  some  of  the  many  letters  Mrs.  Hall 
received  from  Frederika  Bremer  :  she  wrote  in  English  : — 

"  Stockholm,  l^th  September,  1848. 
"  May  the  tears  of  heartfelt  pleasure  and  delight  that  more  than  once  have  filled  my  eyes  while 
reading  the  pages  of  '  The  Old  Governess  '  speak  for  my  sentiments  about  this  noble-minded  and 
most  charming  production,  the  only  one  of  those  sent  me  by  Mrs.  Hall  I  in  this  moment  have 
had  time  to  read  !  God  bless  her  for  it !  It  is  the  wish  of  my  heart.  God  bless  her  also  for  the 
kindness  which  has  made  her  gladden  the  far-off  stranger  with  her  beautiful  gifts !  Dearest 
lady  !  I  am  on  the  end  of  a  voyage,  and  cannot  write  many  words.  Yet  accept  these  as  tokens 
of  my  grateful  admiration  of  your  taleJ:^t,  joy  at  ypur  aims,  and  gratitude  of  your  goodness  to  me 
your  charmed 

"  Feedeeika  Bkemeb." 

f'  Stocjcholm,  \Uh  December,  1851. 
"  I  came  from  you  very  warm,  warm  with  thanks  for  the  past,  warm  with  hopes  for  the  future  ; 
came  so  to  my  native  land.  But  there,  on  the  very  shore,  I  was  seized  with  an  iron  grasp.  It 
was  the  hand  of  death.  I  was  on  my  native  shore,  within  two  hours  from  my  home,  expecting  to  be 
there  in  two  hours,  with  my  dear  old  mother,  and  my  bright  and  beloved  youngest  sister,  the  only 
friend  still  left  me  among  many  to  whom  I  could  say  all  things,  to  whom  my  joy  and  my  sorrow 
were  as  to  myself.  I  had  long  lived  in  anticipation  of  our  meeting,  our  conversations,  our  future 
life  together.    I  thought  more  of  her  than  of  anybody,  anything,  else  on  my  return,  and  now  I  was 

*  There  were  other  trees  planted  by  other  friends,  some  of  whom  have  passed  away,  though  many  happily  remain ; 
I  recall  some  of  them :— Lady  Morgan,  WiUiam  Macready,  "  Jenny  Lind,"  "  Helen  Faucit,"  Samuel  Lover,  Catherine 
Hayes,  WiUiam  and  Mary  Howitt,  Hawthorne,  Charles  Swain,  Sir  Emerson  Tennent,  the  artists  Maclise,  Ward, 
I  Goodail,  Durham,  and  others  whose  names  I  forget,  yet  ought  not  to  have  forgotten. 


FREDERIKA   BREMER.  419 


near  her,  near  my  home,  when  I  was  met  by  the  words,  '  She  is  not  there.     She  is  arisen.     You 
will  never  see  her  more  on  earth.' 

"  In  my  desolate  home  my  poor  lonely  mother  received  me  with  tears.  The  sun  and  song  of 
our  house,  of  her  heart,  were  gone  for  ever.  All  was  dark  and  silent.  The  snow  fell  slowly  and 
silently  around  us,  covering  the  great  fields,  about  which  the  dark  fir  woods  stood  in  silence  also. 
AH  seemed  to  me  like  a  tomb— the  tomb  of  my  best  beloved  one  that  was  laid  in  cold  earth, 
in  yonder  churchyard,  whose  church  spire  rose  out  of  dark  woodland  by  the  horizon.  So  days  and 
weeks  passed,  and  I  felt  as  if  shrouded  and  buried  in  her  grave.  I  said,  '  It  is  well,  and  she  is 
well;  she  has  no  winter  more  to  meet.'  I  said,  'All  is  for  the  best.  "  The  Lord  giveth,  and  the 
Lord  taketh  away ;  blessed  be  the  Lord."'  But— I  did  not /««;  so  ;  could  not  for  a  long  while 
remove  the  weight  of  the  tombstone  from  my  breast.  It  is  better  now;  it  will  be  still  better,  I 
know,  soon,  when  angelic  communion  with  my  good  angel  will  have  taken  the  place  of  the  earthly 
communion,  the  daily  conversations  I  fondly  hoped  for  and  miss  so  much !  " 

"  Stocliliolm,  November,  1852. 
"Year  after  year  friends  are  taken  from  me  by  death,  year  after  year  I  am  becoming  more 
lonely  and  solitary,  and  soon  for  affection  and  sympathy  I  shall  have  solely  to  look  up  to  heaven. 
Still  death  is  less  cold,  l^ss  bereaving  than  some  things  in  this  life.  The  warm  hearts  that  were 
ours,  the  kind  eyes  that  beamed  on  us,  they  live  still  warm  and  bright  for  us,  and  we  can  warm  to 
them  in  love,  though  they  are  taken  away  to  another  region  of  existence.  But  when  hearts  and 
eyes  still  on  earth  look  cold  and  distant — ah  me !  that  is  worse  than  death." 

"Stockholm,  \st  January,  1852. 
"  You  know  already  now,  by  my  letter  to  Mr.  Hall,  how  unawares  and  dreadful  the  blow  came 
to  me  ;  what  you  can  never  know,  for  I  cannot  tell  it,  was  all  that  made  the  blow  so  painfully 
rankling  to  my  heart,  so  difficult  to  bear  well.  Resignation  was  not  the  difficulty.  Not  for  all  the 
world  would  I  call  back  that  delicate  and  suifering  being  to  a  world  where  she  had  so  long  winter 
to  endure,  and  so  little  of  sun  to  cheer  her.  No,  I  say,  and  think.  It  is  well  that  she  is  gone 
to  more  sunny  regions — to  painless  realms  of  youth  and  love.  Oh,  how  well — how  good  to 
think  of  it !  " 

"  Stockholm,  14th  Februari/,  1853. 

"  I  write  to  you  by  the  sick  bed  of  my  kind  old  mother,  struck  since  about  eight  days  by  a 
paralytic  attack,  that  has  taken  from  her  the  use  of  her  legs.  She  cannot  either  stand  or  even  raise 
herself  in  the  bed.  For  some  days  she  has  suffered  from  fever  and  slight  delirium;  from  that 
she  is  well  again,  and  sleep,  appetite,  and  strength  are  returning ;  but — will  she  ever  be  able 
again  to  stand  and  walk  ?  Alas  !  alas  !  it  is  a  sorrowful  thing  to  die  by  inches  slowly  and  heavily. 
God's  will  be  done ;  and  thank  Him  that  every  comfort,  every  care  and  soothing  thing,  can  be 
procured  for  her,  who  never  spared  care  or  anything  to  soothe  the  sick  beds  of  those  near  to  her. 
God  bless  her ! 

"  I  still  manage  to  spend  two  or  three  hours  of  the  forenoon  at  my  writing-desk,  and  there  I 
forget  sorrow,  and  the  winter  wrapping  its  heavy  snow  mantle  about  our  houses  and  homes.  I 
am  in  Cuba,  I  bask  in  the  breezes  of  the  tropics,  I  walk  under  palms,  I  look  on  the  African  negro 
dances  and  make  sugar  from  the  sugar-cane,  I  see  vistas  of  hell  and  of  Paradise  ;  the  former  in 
the  sugar-mills,  in  the  Boheas  where  the  negroes  work  and  live;  the  latter  in  that  sweet  and 
glorious  nature  that  God  has  made  in  the  tropics  to  reveal  his  still  hidden  treasures  of  beauty  and 
delight,  to  make  us  anticipate  what  life — what  the  feeling  of  existence  will  be  when  a  new  heaven 
will  embrace  a  new  and  glorified  earth.  North  America  made  me  better  understand  the  real  earth, 
but  Cuba  made  me  better  understand  heaven. 

"While  my  memories,  my  impressions,  of  my  life  in  the  western  world  still  are  fresh,  I  wrap 
myself  in  them,  and  live  in  them,  the  better  to  give  them  again  in  words  and  images,  and  try  to 
hold  all  things  else  afar.  Still  I  long  to  have  done,  to  be  able  to  go  to  works  of  imagination,  and 
to  feed  little  birds  wanting  to  creep  out  of  their  nests,  and  take  wing.  I  am  glad  to  see  the  end  of 
my  voyage  draws  near.     When  the  snow  melts  in  March,  then  I  will  be  at  home." 

"  Gottland,  \st  August,  1855. 

"Dear  Friend,— I  am  an  optimist;  I  look  always  out  for  the  sunny  side  of  things  ;  I  cannot 
help  it,  and  I  would  not.  Thus  I  am  so  since  my  eye  fell  upon,  and  lully  saw  the  Redeemer  and 
his  glory.  Since  I  have  known  Him  that  you  love  and  adore  as  well  as  I  (and  every  true 
Chrisiian),  there  is  to  me  no  total  darkness  in  the  world,  and  even  the  night  of  hell  has  a  ray  of 
light  and  hope. 

"  The  last  one  of  my  dear  relatives  that  I  have  truly  and  dearly  loved,  my  mother,  is  now 

£    E  2 


420  MEMORIES, 


with  her  children  in  heaven ;  their  good,  aspiring,  and  loving  spirits  must  meet,  I  know  it,  for 
Jesus  has  said,  '  Blessed  are  those  that  hunger  and  thirst  after  righteousness,  then  they  shall  he 
satisfied.' 

"  Thank  God,  the  death  of  my  dear,  kind  mother  was  a  peaceful  and  almost  painless  one,  the 
most  sweet  form  of  death  that  I  yet  have  seen.  Tt  was  good  for  her  to  die  ;  then  she  was  very 
lame,  and  growing  more  and  more  so.  I  am  now  my  own  mistress,  and  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life.  I  shall  take  lodgings,  and  set  up  for  myself.  It  will  he  in  a  very  modest  way,  in  accordance 
with  my  modest  fortune ;  yet,  thank  G-od,  I  am  above  want,  and  I  can  live  wholly  for  those 
interests  which  are  most  dear  to  my  heart." 

The  only  sister  of  Frederika  Bremer  died  in  1876. 


ADELAIDE  ANNE  PEOCTEE. 

I  PRINTED,  in  a  new  edition  of  "  The  Book  of  Gems,"  a  Memory  (which  I  here  adopt) 
of  this  most  estimable  lady.  She  was  the  daughter  of  the  poet  Bryan  Waller  Procter 
— "  Barry  Cornwall ;"  was  born  on  the  30th  of  October,  1825;  and  died  on  the  2nd 
of  February,  1864. 

Her  friend,  and  her  father's  friend — Charles  Dickens — has  related  the  history  ot 
her  life,  and  published  it  as  the  introduction  to  a  volume  of  her  poems,  collected  after 
her  death.  There  were  few  facts  to  tell :  her  days  were  passed  in  the  bosom  of  a 
beloved  family ;  she  had  none  of  the  cares  and  anxieties  that  usually  beset,  perplex, 
and  worry  the  heart  and  mind  of  the  poet.  Her  career  was  one  of  triumph  in  her 
high  calling. 

Hers  is,  therefore,  by  no  means  a  life  to  mourn  over,  although  it  would  be  easy 
to  speculate  on  what  she  might  have  done  had  it  been  prolonged  to  the  term 
ordinarily  accorded  by  Providence  to  those  who  have  work  to  do.  That  which  she 
has  done  is  amply  sufficient  to  place  her  name  high  among  the  poets  of  the  century. 
Her  poems  are  full  of  refined  beauty  ;  and  though  for  the  most  part  of  a  mournful, 
they  are  never  of  a  repining,  character.  It  would  seem  as  though  she  anticipated 
removal  in  early  life.  That  feeling  may  have  been  shared  by  her  friends,  for  her 
health  was  always  dehcate  ;  and,  though  not  handsome  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the 
term,  the  expression  of  her  countenance  was  singularly  up-looking — as  if  during  her 
earthly  pilgrimage  she  communed  with  the  angels  she  was  soon  to  join.  It  was  not 
sad,  and  certainly  not  sorrowful ;  yet  it  conveyed  conviction  that  it  was  her  destiny 
to  die  comparatively  young.  I  knew  her  when  a  child,  and  also  when  the  world  had 
accorded  homage  to  her  genius ;  and  to  me  there  was  always  in  her  presence  a  strong 
impression  that  her  work  on  earth  was  "  not  for  long." 

The  honoured  name  she  inherited  might  have  been  a  password  for  admission  to 
any  publication  when  she  sought  to  pubHsh  verses  ;  she,  therefore,  for  a  time 
ignored  it ;  and  under  one  that  was  assumed — that  of  "  Mary  Berwick  "—obtained 
renown.  Her  early  friend,  Mr.  Dickens,  tells  us  that,  as  the  editor  of  Household 
Words,  he  received  a  contribution  thus  signed,  and  guided  solely  by  its  merit,  inserted 
it.     It  is  to  his  credit  as  a  critic  that  he  so  determined.     She  owed  nothing  to  the 


ADELAIDE  ANNE  PROCTER.  421 

proud  name  she  bore,  but  made  ber  way  to  popularity  by  her  own  unaided  strength, 
among  a  crowd  of  eager  competitors  for  honours.  The  accident  that  made  Mr.  Dickens 
acquainted  with  the  fact  that  his  valued  correspondent  was  the  daughter  of  "  Barry 
Cornwall,"  is  told  so  graphically,  that  I  quote  it : — "  Happening,  one  day,  to  dine  with 
an  old  and  dear  friend,  distinguished  in  literature  as  '  Barry  Cornwall,'  I  took  with 
me  an  early  proof  of  the  Christmas  number  (of  Household  Words),  and  remarked,  as 
I  laid  it  on  the  drawing-room  table,  that  it  contained  a  very  pretty  poem,  written  by 
a  certain  Miss  Berwick.  Next  day  brought  me  a  disclosure  that  I  had  so  spoken  of 
the  poem  to  the  mother  of  its  writer,  in  its  writer's  presence."  And  her  father — 
good  and  honoured  "  Barry  Cornwall" — is  now  again  her  companion — in  another 
sphere. 

As  on  other  occasions,  and  of  other  personal  friends  or  acquaintances,  the  limits 
to  which  I  am  confined  in  this  book  must  prevent  my  giving  detailed  memories  of 
many.  So  it  must  be  as  regards  the  poet  Bryan  Waller  Procter,  whom  I  knew, 
honoured,  and  esteemed  most  highly. 


1 


ALLAK   CUNNINGHAM. 

LLAN  CUNNINGHAM  was  born  at  Blackwood,  near  Dumfries,  on 
the  Tth  of  December,  1784,  and  died  in  London  on  the  29th 
of  October,  1842.     He  was,  therefore,  not  very  aged  when 
called  from  earth  ;  yet  his  was  a  giant  frame,  and  a  constitu- 
tion singularly  robust ;  all  his  habits  were  healthy ;  he  had, 
during  the  later  years  of  his  life,  perfect  tranquillity  of  mind, 
without  any  dread  of  the  future  ;  he   derived  much  comfort 
from  the  prospects  of  his  children  ;  and  his  home  had  been  a 
happy  home  from  the  first  day  that  his  admirable  wife  came 
from  her  Scottish  dwelling  to  share  it— to  share  also  in  the  honourable  fame 
he   obtained,  "  all  his   own,"  to   be   the  friend   of  the  many  friends  he  had 
acquired   by   the    exercise  of   high   and  wholesome  intellect,  and  by   social 
rm       qualities,  without  any   drawback,  that  made  his  society  a  perpetual  charm. 
V        Miss  Landon  once  gave  me  his  character  in  a  sentence — "A  few  words   of 
Allan  Cunningham  strengthen  me  like  a  dose  of  Peruvian  bark  !  " 

In  his  youthhood  he  followed  the  comparatively  humble  calling  of  a  stonemason  ; 
not  however,  without  a  thought  that  he  might  become  a  builder  ;  and  he  was  sorely 
tempted  that  way  when,  embarking  for  England  at  the  port  of  Leith,  an  acquaintance 


ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM.  423 


sought  to  seduce  him  from^his  allegiance  to  the  Muses  by  offering  to  become  his  partner 
in  a  scheme  which  might  have  led  to  fortune. 

His  forefathers  were  stout  Scottish  men  of  the  Border,  and  of  good  blood,  one  of 
them  having  fought  as  an  officer  under  the  banner  of  the  great  Montrose  at  Kilsyth 
aiud  Philiphaugh.  His  elder  brother  was  a  mason  before  him,  and  so  a  mason  Allan 
became.  Of  another  brother — Thomas — Hogg  tells  us  he  "  had  great  poetical  power, 
which  he  hid  under  lock  and  key."  But  the  heart  of  Allan  was  not  in  "  manual  " 
labour,  although  he  rapidly  became  a  skilful  workman ;  he  loved  better  to  pore  over 
old  books,  listen  to  old  songs  and  tales,  and  roam  among  his  native  hills  and  glens, 
for  neighbouring  Nithside  was  a  place  of  much  natural  beauty.  Hogg  describes  Allan, 
when  young,  as  "  a  dark,  ungainly  youth,  with  a  buirdly  frame,  and  strongly-marked, 
manly  features — the  very  model  of  Burns,  and  exactly  such  a  man."  He  adds,  "  He 
is  all  heart  together,  without  reserve  either  of  expression  or  manner.  You  at  once 
see  the  unaffected  benevolence,  warmth  of  feeling,  and  firm  independence  of  a  man 
conscious  of  his  own  rectitude  and  mental  energies."  A  thirst  for  knowledge  came 
early  ;  but  a  love  of  writing,  as  I  have  heard  him  say,  came  late.  He  had  gathered 
much  before  he  gave  out  any  ;  some  of  his  lyrics,  however,  having  made  their  way 
into  print,  he  found  it  comparatively  easy  to  climb  the  steep  where 

"  Fame's  proud  temple  shines  afar." 

He  had  his  struggles  certainly,  but  they  were  neither  heavy  nor  prolonged ;  and 
although,  for  a  time,  a  wanderer  in  London,  trusting  to  the  precarious  chances  of 
gain  as  a  contributor  to  the  public  press,  a  fortunate  circumstance  placed  him  in  a 
position  where  all  peril  of  want  was  happily  averted. 

So  early  as  1809,  Cromek,  the  engraver,  accompanied  by  the  artist  Stothard,  had 
visited  Dumfries,  to  collect  materials  for  an  illustrated  edition  of  the  poems  of  Kobert 
Burns.  They  were  introduced  to  Allan  Cunningham,  who  read  to  them  some  of  his 
verses  ;  these  were  pooh-poohed  by  Cromek,  but  when  Allan  repeated  some  snatches 
of  old  ballads,  the  idea  occurred  to  the  speculative  publisher  that  to  gather  and  print 
them,  in  the  manner  of  Percy's  "  Eeliques,"  would  be  a  good  scheme.  The  hint 
suggested  itself  to  Allan  that  he  might  palm  off  upon  the  publisher  some  imitations 
as  genuine  :  the  bait  took.  Cromek,  who  had  no  relish  for  Allan's  original  composi- 
tions, was  delighted  with  the  "  imitations."  It  is  understood  that  Cromek  never 
guessed  the  fraud  to  be  one  until  after  the  publication  of  the  "  Kemains  of  Nithsdale 
and  Galloway  Song." 

In  order  to  see  this  book  through  the  press,  Allan  accepted  the  invitation  of 
Cromek  to  visit  London  ;  and  in  London  he  arrived  on  the  9th  of  April,  1810 — a 
memorable  day,  for  it  was  the  day  on  which  Sir  Francis  Burdett  was  sent  to  the 
Tower,^' 

*  Prom  a  slight  autobiography  which  AUan  left  in  MS.,  I  am  permitted  to  make  a  few  interesting  extracts.  The 
poet  records  his  departure  from  Scotland,  and  his  advent  in  London  :— "  The  hour  of  fame  and  distinction  teemed, 
in  my  sight,  at  hand.  I  turned  my  eyes  on  London,  and  closed  them  on  all  places  else.  In  vain  my  friends  urged 
me  to  study  architecture,  and  apply  the  talent,  &c.,  &c. 

"  On  my  way  to  the  pier  of  Leith  I  met  one  of  my  old  Edinburgh  comrades,  Chai'lie  Stevenson  by  name,  who 
was  rejoiced  to  see  me,  and  tried,  over  '  a  pint  of  the  best  o't,'  to  persuade  me  to  become  his  partner  in  the  erection 


424  MEMORIES. 


The  "  Remains  of  Nithsdale  and  Galloway  Song  "  became  popular ;  it  was  regarded 
as  a  veritable  collection  of  old  fragments  ;  "  no  one  suspected  a  cbeat ;  "  none  of  tbe 
mere  public,  that  is  to  say :  for  Bishop  Percy  at  once  pronounced  them  too  good  to 
be  old,  and  Sir  Walter  Scott,  James  Hogg,  and  Professor  Wilson  did  not  for  a 
moment  hesitate  as  to  the  true  authorship.  They,  as  Hogg  says,  "  laid  the  saddle  on 
the  right  horse ; "  and  although  there  may  have  been,  as  there  ought  to  have  been, 
doubts  as  to  the  morality  of  the  transaction,  the  book  gave  Allan  fame — nothing 
else  ;  for  Cromek  presented  to  him  a  bound  copy,  alleging  that  it  had  been  a  costly 
work  to  produce,  but  promising  "  something  handsome  "  when  it  reached  a  second 
edition. 

After  he  had  been  two  months  in  London,  and  had  found  that  Cromek  was  unable 
to  procure  him  the  "  situation  "  he  expected,  he  engaged  himself  for  twenty-five 
shillings  (subsequently  increased  to  thirty-two)  a  week  "  to  an  indifferent  sculptor  of 
the  name  of  Bubb,  in  Carmarthen  Street,"  where  he  found  he  had  much  spare  even- 


ing  time  on  his  hands ;  and  he  goes  on  to  say,  in  the  autobiography  to  which  I  have 
referred, — 

"I  now  thought  of  Eugenius  Hoche  and  the  'Literary  Eecreations,'  a  work  which  I  never 
could  persuade  myself  died  of  want  of  the  breath  of  genius.  I  found  him  in  Carey  Street,  a 
husband  and  a  father,  and  as  warm-hearted  and  kind  as  his  correspondence  had  led  me  to  imagine. 
He  was  well  acquainted  with  foreign,  as  well  as  with  English  literature ;  wrote  prose  with  fluency, 
and  verse  with  ease  and  elegance ;  and  was  in  looks  and  manners,  and  in  all  things,  a  gentleman — 
tall,  too,  spoke  with  a  slight  lisp,  and  was  of  a  fair  complexion.  He  had  in  other  days  expressed 
a  desire  to  serve  me,  and  pointed  out  the  newspapers  as  a  source  of  emolument  to  an  able  and 
ready  writer.     As  he  was  now  the  conductor  of  a  paper  called  the  I>ay,  he  told  me  he  would  give 


with  worthy  (Jharl'ie  Stevenson,  and  committed  myself  to  the  waves  in  one  of  the  Leith  smacks  bound  for  London. 
Several  of  my  comi-ades  from  the  Vale  of  Nith,  then  at  the  University,  waved  me  fi'om  the  pier,  and  away  I  went, 
with  groves  of  laurels  rustling  green  before  me,  and  fame  and  independence,  I  nothing  doubted,  ready  to  welcome 
me  to  that  great  city  which  annually  swallows  up  so  many  high  hopes  and  enthusiastic  spirits  " 


ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM. 


425 


me  a  permanent  situation  upon  it  as  a  reporter  as  soon  as  the  Parliamentary  sessions  began,  and 
in  the  meantime  he  would  allow  me  a  guiuea  per  week  fur  any  little  poetic  contributions  which  I 
liked  to  make.  What  the  duties  required  of  me  were,  I  could  form  no  opinion,  but  as  I  concluded 
that  Roche  must  know  I  was  fit  to  fulfil  them,  1  was  easy  on  that  point.  I  was  now  well  ofi"  as  to 
money  matters,  and  in  a  po.siLion  to  indulge  a  wish  dear  to  my  heart,  namely,  to  bring  my  lass  of 
Preston  Mill  to  London,  and  let  her  try  her  skill  as  a  wife  and  a  hoasekeeper."* 

In  1814,  Allan,  bearing  in  mind  the  saying  of  his  great  countryman,  that  litera- 
ture, though  a  good  staff,  is  a  bad  crutch,  entered  the  studio  of  Sir  Francis  Chantrey, 
as  the  general  superintendent  of  his  works  ;  and  there  he  remained  until  his  death, 
residing  in  a  house  adjacent— No.  27,  Lower  Belgrave  Place,  Pimlico. 


THE  BIETHPLACB   OF  ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM. 


That,  like  all  men  who  are  the  architects  of  their  own  fortunes,  he  had  to  wrestle 
for  his,  is  very  certain.  In  a  letter  to  Professor  Wilson,  dated  September,  1828,  he 
says,  "  My  life  has  been  one  continued  struggle  to  maintain  my  independence,  and 
support  wife  and  children ;  and  I  have,  when  the  labour  of  the  day  is  closed,  endea- 
voured to  use  the  little  talent  which  my  country  allows  me  to  possess  as  easily  and 


*  Allan  had  contributed  from  Dumfries  two  or  three  poems  to  the  Literary  Hecreations—a,  work  edited  by 
Eugenius  Roche— in  1807 ;  they  were  signed  "  Hidallan."  In  one  of  the  monthly  parts  I  find  this  passage  among  the 
notices  to  correspondents  : — "  We  really  feel  proud  in  having  the  pleasxue  of  ushering  to  pubho  notice,  through  the 
medium  of  our  publication,  the  effusions  of  such  a  self-taught  genius  as  Hidallan."  I  knew  Eugenius  Roche  some- 
what intimately  in  1825.  He  was  an  Irish  gentleman,  of  a  very  kindly  and  genial  nature.  At  that  time  he  was 
editor  of  the  Morning  Post,  and  had,  all  his  life,  been  a  labourer  for  the  press.  He  was  proud  of  the  small  share  he 
had  in  advancing  the  fortunes  of  Cunningham  ;  and,  long  before  I  became  acquainted  with  Allan,  described  to  me 
the  surprise  he  had  felt  on  the  discovery  that  so  young  and  so  apparently  rough  a  specimen  of  the  "  north  countrie  " 
was  the  writer  of  the  poems  he  had  read  with  so  much  delight.  Roche  still  lived  in  Carey  Street — or  rather  in  Shire 
Lane,  close  to  the  corner  of  Carey  Street— when  I  knew  him,  and  there,  I  believe,  he  died  about  the  year  1830.  He 
is  worthy  of  a  better  tribute  than  my  limited  information  enables  me  to  give :  few  men  more  amiable  and  excellent 
have  existed  in  my  time. 


426  MEMORIES. 


as  profitably  as  I  can.  The  pen  thus  adds  a  little  to  the  profit  of  the  chisel,  and  I 
keep  my  head  above  water,  and  on  occasion  take  the  middle  of  the  causeway  with  an 
independent  step. 

It  was  while  living  upon  chances,  so  to  speak,  and  while  yet  in  early  youth,  tha-t 
he  ventured  on  the  bold  step  of  marriage.  From  the  lassie  to  whom  he  had  pledged 
his  troth,  in  his  native  village,  his  heart  had  never  wandered  ;  neither  the  lures  of 
the  metropolis,  nor  his  dreams  of  distinction — that  had  been  dreary  as  well  as  dim — 
had  wiled  his  affection  from  his  first  and  only  love. 

On  this  subject  I  borrow  a  passage  from  Allan's  autobiography  : 

"In  the  summer  of  1812  I  was  a  husband  and  a  father.  I  was  married  on  the  Ist  of  July, 
1811,  in  the  Church  of  St.  Saviour,  Southwark,  and  did  not  fail,  even  in  that  hour  of  joy,  to 
remark  that  James  I.,  the  poet-king  of  Scotland,  had  been  married  there  also,  and  that  we  joined 
hands  nigh  the  monument  of  Gower,  and  not  far  from  the  grave  of  Massinger.  J  had  persuaded 
my  lass  of  Preston  Mill  to  come  to  London,  nor  did  she  reach  me  without  finding  good  friends 
by  the  way.  In  the  house  of  Gray,  master  of  the  High  School  of  Edinburgh,  she  met  the  atten- 
tion due  to  a  daughter,  was  introduced  to  Dr.  Anderson,  and  had  the  pleasure  of  hearing  a 
letter  read  from  Bishop  Percy,  in  which  he  spoke  well  of  the  talents  of  her  future  husband.  In 
James  Hogg,  also,  and  his  comrade,  Grieve,  she  met  with  attentive  friends,  who  showed  her 
the  beauties  of  Edinburgh,  conveyed  her  to  the  pier  of  Leith,  and  saw  her  safely  embarked  on 
the  waves.  Of  her  and  my  sister  Jean,  who  accompanied  her,  Hogg  thus  wrote  to  my  eldest 
brother  James  : — 'I  had  the  pleasure  of  waiting  on  your  two  sisters  for  a  few  days,  and  I  am 
sure  there  never  was  a  brother  took  the  charge  of  sisters  more  pleasantly  than  I  did.  But  one 
of  them,  at  least,  needs  nobody  to  take  care  of  her — I  mean  the  beauteous  mermaid  of  Galloway, 
who  is  certainly  a  most  extraordinary  young  woman.  I  introduced  her  to  some  gentlemen  and 
ladies  of  my  acquaintance,  who  were  not  only  delighted,  bat  astonished  at  her.'  Jean  Walker 
was  then  twenty  years  of  age  ;  her  complexion  was  fine,  and  her  eyes  bright ;  and  her  prudence 
equalled  her  looks." 

Mrs.  Cunningham  survived  Allan  many  years,  dying  in  September,  1864.  She 
was  a  charming  woman  in  her  prime,  and  must  have  been  very  lovely  as  a  girl.  I 
have  never  known  a  better  example  of  what  natui'al  grace  and  purity  can  do  to  pro- 
duce refinement.  Though  peasant-born,  she  was,  in  society,  a  lady — thoroughly  so. 
There  was  not  only  no  shadow  of  vulgarity  in  her  manners  ;  there  was  not  even 
rusticity  ;  while  there  was  a  total  absence  of  assumption  and  pretence  ;  and  she  was 
entirely  at  ease  in  the  "  grand  "  society — men  and  women  of  rank  as  well  as  those 
eminent  in  Art,  in  Science,  and  in  Letters — I  have  met  as  guests  at  her  home. 

Not  long  after  he  entered  the  studio  of  Chantrey,  Cunningham  published  a 
dramatic  poem,  "  Sir  Marmaduke  Maxwell,"  commemorating  one  of  the  heroes 
of  his  native  district.  It  was  praised  by  the  critics,  and  Sir  Walter  Scott  gene- 
rously 

"  Handed  the  rustic  stranger  up  to  Fame," 

by  a  few  laudatory  words  in  the  introductory  epistle  which  prefaces  the  "  Fortunes 
of  Nigel."* 

Thenceforward  his  career  in  literature  was  easy  and  prosperous  ;  his  collection  of 
the  "  Songs  of  Scotland  "  is  a  text-book  for  all  after  writers  ;  and  his  novels,  althouf^h 

*  "  There  is  my  friend  AUan  has  written Just  such  a  play  as  I  might  write  myself  on  a  very  sunny  dav  and  witi 
one  of  Bramah's  extra  patent  pens.  ....  So  much  animation  in  particular  passages,  and  such  a  vein  of  noV-trv 

through  the  whole Honest  Allan,  you  are  a  credit  to  Caledonia There  are  some  Iviical  effusions  of  hi-T 

too,  which  you  would  do  well  to  read.    '  It's  Hame  and  it's  Hame,'  is  equal  to  Burns."  enusions  ot  his 


ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM.  427 


pushed  aside  by  more  "  sensational  "  works,  retain  an  ample  share  of  popularity. 
His  poems  are  not  numerous  :  his  last  poetical  production  of  any  length — the  "  Maid 
of  Elvar  " — is,  perhaps,  his  best.  The  scene  of  this  little  rustic  epic,  as  he  correctly 
styles  it,  is  laid  in  his  native  vale;  and  many  of  the  delicious  pictures  it  contains, 
with  a  true  vein  of  poetry  throughout,  are  drawn  from  rural  life.  It  is,  however, 
written  in  a  measure  ill  calculated  to  become  extensively  popular.  The  poetical 
reputation  of  Allan  Cunningham  has  been  made,  and  is  sustained,  by  his  ballads  and 
lyrical  pieces.  They  are  exquisite  in  feeling,  chaste  and  elegant  in  style,  graceful  in 
expression,  and  natural  in  conception  ;  they  seem,  indeed,  the  mere  unstudied  out- 
pourings of  the  heart ;  yet  will  bear  the  strictest  and  most  critical  inspection  of  those 
who  consider  elaborate  finish  to  be  at  least  the  second  requisite  of  writers  of  song.  His 
own  country  has  supplied  him  with  his  principal  themes ;  and  the  peculiar  dialect  of 
Scotland — in  which  he  frequently  wrote — his  good  taste  prevents  him  from  ever  ren- 
dering harsh,  or  even  inharmonious,  to  Southern  ears. 

The  work,  however,  by  which  he  did  most  good  is  the  six  volumes  of  "  Lives  of 
British  Painters,  Sculptors,  and  Architects."  It  has  been  objected  to  as  less  enthu- 
siastic than  the  subject  demanded  ;  but  the  memoirs  are  earnest  and  true ;  they 
manifest  sufficient  research,  and  'bear  strong  evidence  of  thorough  knowledge  ;  while 
they  are  the  productions  of  a  graceful  pen,  discharging  a  pleasant  task  with  critical 
nicety  and  sound  discretion.  Southey  wrote  to  him,  "  Your  '  British  Painters  '  will 
live  as  long  as  any  records  of  British  Art  remain.  It  is  the  best  book  of  its  kind  that 
has  ever  fallen  in  my  way."  And  Leslie,  who  was  to  follow  him  as  a  biographer  of 
Eeynolds,  in  thanking  him  for  one  of  the  volumes,  says, — "  I  cannot  but  set  a  high 
value  on  a  compliment  from  one  with  whose  published  opinions  on  the  characters 
of  our  deceased  artists,  if  on  a  very  few  points  I  difi'er,  in  the  main  I  entirely 
agree."* 

Few  men  have  received  finer  compliments  from  their  contemporaries ;  that  of 
Southey  is  well-known  : — 

"Allan,  true  child  of  Scotland ;  thou  who  art 
So  oft  in  spirit  on  thy  native  hiUs 
And  yonder  Solway  shore,  a  poet  thou !  " 

Those  of  Scott,  of  Hogg,  and  of  Wilson  I  have  quoted.  "  Stalwart  of  form  and  stout 
of  heart  and  verse— a  ruder  Burns,"  writes  Talfourd.  When  he  edited  the  Anni- 
versary, one  of  the  Annuals,  he  obtained  the  aid  of  Wilson  and  many  other  writers, 
tempted  by  friendship,  whom  no  money  could  have  tempted.  It  was  at  his  house- 
honoured  guests,  receiving  honour— I  met  some  of  the  greatest  men  of  the  age — 
among  them  Scott  and  Southey  ;  and  there  was  no  man  of  any  rank  in  England  or 
in  Scotland  who  would  not  have  considered  it  a  privilege  to  be  classed  among 
his  friends. 

It  is  our  happiness  so  to  class  ourselves  ;  and  I  am  tempted  to  print  one  of  his 
letters  to  Mrs.  Hall  among  the  few  of  his  I  have  preserved  :— 

*  Cunningham  wrote  for  the  Ari-Jownal  a  series  of  papers  on  "Our  PubUc  Statues,"  which  were  published  in 
that  work  in  1840-41. 


428  MEMORIES. 

"  Belgrave  Place,  3rd  August,  1836. 
"  My  dear  Mas.  Hall, 

"  I  will  do  anything  for  you,  tut  my  Muse,  poor  lassie,  has  lost  much  of  her  early 
readiness  and  spirit,  and  finds  more  difficulty  in  making  words  clink  and  lines  keep  time  ;  but  she 
will  work  for  you,  and  as  she  loves  you,  who  knows  but  some  of  her  earlier  inspiration  may  come 
to  her  again  ?  for  you  must  know  I  think  her  strains  have  lost  much  of  their  free  wild  nature  since 
"WE  came  from  the  land  of  the  yellow  broom  and  the  blossomed  heather. 

"  Yours  ever  and  ever, 

"  Allan  Cunningham." 

I  shall,  I  hope,  be  pardoned  for  extracting  a  passage  from  a  letter  I  received  from 
him  soon  after  the  issue  of  the  first  volume  of  my  "  Book  of  Gems :  " — 

"  Your  '  Book  of  Gems  '  was  welcome  for  your  sake,  painting's  sake,  poetry's  sake,  and  my 
own  sake.  I  have  done  nothing  but  look  at  it  since  it  came,  and  admire  the  good  taste  of  the 
selections,  and  the  happy  language — clear  too,  and  discriminating — of  the  biographies.  It  will 
do  good  both  to  the  living  and  the  dead — directing  and  animating  the  former,  and  giving  a  fresh 
lustre  to  the  latter.  If  it  obtains  but  half  the  success  which  it  deserves,  both  your  publisher  and 
yourself  ought  to  be  satisfied.  I  have  made  the  characters  of  our  poets  my  study — studied  them 
both  as  men  and  as  bards,  looking  at  them  through  the  eyes  of  nature,  and  I  am  fully  warranted 
in  saying  that  our  notions  very  seldom  differ,  and  that  you  come  nearer  my  feelings  on  the  whole 
than  any  other  person,  save  one,  whom  I  have  ever  met.  You  will  see  this  when  my  '  Lives  of 
the  Poets'  are  published,  and  that  will  be  soon,  for  the  first  volume  is  all  but  ready." 

An  interesting  anecdote  is  recorded  by  Lockhart  in  his  Life  of  Scott : — 

"  Breakfasting  one  morning  with  Allan  Cunningham,  and  commending  one  of  his  publications, 
Scott  looked  round  the  table,  and  said,  '  What  are  you  going  to  make  of  all  these  boys.  Allan?' 
'  I  ask  that  question  often  at  my  own  heart,'  said  Allan,  '  and  I  cannot  answer  it.'  '  What  does 
the  eldest  point  to  ?  '  '  The  callant  would  fain  be  a  soldier,  Sir  Walter,  and  I  have  a  half-promise 
of  a  commission  in  the  king's  army  for  him,  but  I  wish  rather  he  could  go  to  India,  for  there  the 
pay  is  a  maintenance,  and  one  does  not  need  interest  at  every  step  to  get  on.'  Scott  dropped 
the  subject,  but  went  an  hour  aftewards  to  Lord  Melville  (who  was  then  President  of  the  Board 
of  Control),  and  begged  a  cadetship  for  young  Cunningham.  Lord  Melville  promised  to  inquire 
if  he  had  one  at  his  disposal,  in  which  case  he  would  aladl)'-  serve  the  son  of  honest  Allan ; 
but  the  point  being  thus  left  doubtful,  Scott  meeting  Mr.  John  Loch,  one  of  the  East  India 
Directors,  at  dinner  the  same  evening  at  Lord  Stafford's,  applied  to  him,  and  received  an  imme- 
diate assent.  On  reaching  home  at  night,  he  found  a  note  from  Lord  Melville  intimating  that 
he  had  inquired,  and  was  happy  in  complying  with  his  request.  Next  morning  Sir  Walter 
appeared  at  Sir  Francis  Chantrey's  breakfast  table,  and  greeted  the  sculptor  (who  is  a  brother  of 
the  angle)  with,  '  I  suppose  it  has  sometimes  happened  to  you  to  catch  one  trout  (which  was  all 
you  thought  of)  with  the  fly  and  another  with  the  bobber.  I  have  done  so,  and  I  think  I  shall 
land  them  both.  Don't  you  think  Cunningham  would  like  very  well  to  have  cadetships  for  two 
of  those  fine  lads  ?  '  'To  be  sure  he  would,'  said  Chantrey,  '  and  if  you'll  secure  the  commissions, 
I'll  make  the  outfit  easy.'  Great  was  the  joy  in  Allan's  household  on  this  double  good  news, 
but  I  should  add  that,  before  the  thing  was  done,  he  had  to  thank  another  benefactor.  Lord 
Melville,  after  all,  went  out  of  the  Board  of  Control  before  he  had  been  able  to  fulfil  his  promise. 
But  his  successor,  Lord  Ellenborough,  on  hearing  the  circumstances  of  the  case,  desired  Cunning- 
ham to  set  his  mind  at  rest,  and  both  his  young  men  are  now  prospering  in  the  Indian  service."* 

In  one  of  her  earlier  sketches  Mrs.  Hall  thus  pictures  Allan  Cunningham : — "  I 
can  clearly  recall  the  first  interview  I  had  with  him ;  it  was  before  I  had  been  much 
in  literary  society,  and  when  I  was  but  little  acquainted  with  those  whose  works  had 


•  The  elder  of  these  two  sons,  named  Joseph  Davy,  after  one  of  his  father's  old  comrades  of  the  Day  newspaper 
rose  high  in  the  Indian  political  service,  and  was  the  author  of  a  very  able  work,  the  "  History  of  the  Sikhs  "  He' 
died  in  1851  The  other,  Alexander,  has  retired  fi-om  the  service  as  a  general  oificer,  having  resigned  the  appoint- 
ment of  Archeeological  Investigator  to  the  Government  of  India.  He  has  published  several  works  on  antiquarian 
subjects.  The  third  son,  Peter,  established  a  high  position  m  literature,  and  die!  at  St.  Alban's  in  1869.  The  fourth 
and  youngest  son,  Francis  Chantrey,  also  entered  the  ai'my,  and  after  being,  for  many  years,  First  Assist  mt  and 
Secretary  to  the  Commission  for  the  Government  of  Mysore,  has  now  retii-ed  with  the  rank  of  a  General.  His  son  was 
married  to  a  niece  of  the  painter,  Hannah. 


ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM. 


429 


found  places  in  my  heart.  I  remember  how  my  cheek  flushed,  and  how  pleased  and 
proud  I  was  of  the  few  words  of  praise  he  gave  to  one  of  the  first  efforts  of  my  pen. 
He  was  then  a  stout  man,  somewhat  high-shouldered,  broad-chested,  and  altogether 
strongly  proportioned  ;  his  head  was  firm  and  erect,  his  mouth  close,  yet  full,  the  lips 
large,  his  nose  thick  and  broad,  his  eyes  of  intense  darkness  (I  could  never  define 
their  colour),  beneath  shaggy  and  flexible  eyebrows,  and  were,  I  think,  as  powerful, 
yet  as  soft  and  winning,  as  any  eyes  I  ever  saw.  His  brow  was  expansive,  indicating 
by  its  breadth  not  only  imagination  and  observation,  but,  by  its  height,  the  veneration 
and  benevolence  so  conspicuous  in  his  character.  His  accent  was  strongly  Scotch, 
and  when  warmed  into  a  subject,  he  expressed  himself  with  eloquence  and  feeling; 


THE  GRAVE  OF  ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM.. 


but  generally  his  manner  was  quiet  and  reserved ;  quiet  more  from  a  habit  of  obser- 
ving than  from  a  dislike  to  conversation In  after  years,  when  it  was  my 

privilege  to  meet  him  frequently,  it  was  a  pleasure  to  note  the  respect  he  commanded 
from  all  who  were  distinguished  in  Art  and  in  Letters.  He  had  a  sovereign  contempt 
for  anything  that  approached  affectation — literary  affectation  especially  ;  and  certainly 
lashed  it,  even  in  society,  by  words  and  looks  of  contempt  that  could  not  be  easily 
forgotten.  '  Wherever,'  I  have  heard  him  say,  'there  is  nature,  wherever  a  person 
is  not  ashamed  to  show  a  heart,  there  is  the  germ  of  excellence.  I  love  nature  !  '  His 
dark  eyes  would  often  glisten  over  a  child  or  a  flower ;  and  a  ballad,  one  of  the  songs 
of  his  native  land,  would  move  him  to  tears  (I  have  seen  it  do  so  more  than  once), 


430  MEMORIES. 


1 


that  is  to  say,  if  it  were  sung  '  according  to  nature,'  with  no  extra  '  flourish,'  no 
encumbering  drapery  of  form  to  disturb  the  '  natural '  melody." 

Allan,  as  I  have  said,  was  a  man  of  stalwart  form ;  it  was  well  knit,  and,  appa- 
rently, the  health  that  had  been  garnered  in  childhood  and  in  youth  was  his  blessing 
when  in  manhood.  Certainly,  to  all  outward  seeming,  he  had  ample  security  for  a 
long  life  ;  his  brow  was  large  and  lofty  ;  his  face  of  the  Scottish  type — high  cheek- 
bones and  well  rounded ;  his  mouth  flexible  and  expressive,  yet  indicative  of  strong 
resolution ;  his  eyes  were  likened,  by  those  who  knew  both  persons,  to  those  of 
Burns,  and  no  doubt  they  were  so ;  they  were  deeply  seated,  and  almost  black,  sur- 
rounded by  a  dark  rim,  and  shadowed  by  somewhat  heavy,  dark  eyebrows.  His 
manners  conveyed  conviction  of  sincerity ;  they  were  not  refined,  neither  were  they 
rugged,  and  the  very  opposite  of  coarse.  It  was  plain  that,  for  all  his  advantages, 
he  was  indebted  to  Nature  ;  for  although  he  mixed  much  in  what  is  called  "  polite 
society,"  and  was  a  gentleman  whose  companionship  was  courted  by  the  highest — 
statesmen  and  peers — up  to  the  last  he  had  "  a  smack  of  the  heather." 

Nothing  seemed  to  irritate  him  so  much  as  affectation,  either  with  the  pen  or 
pencil,  or  in  word,  or  look,  or  manner.  I  have  seen  him  exasperated  by  a  lisp  in  a 
woman,  and  by  a  mincing  gait  in  a  man ;  any  pretence  to  be  what  was  not,  made 
him,  so  to  say,  furious.  I  would  close  this  Memory — so  as  I  think  may  best 
convey  an  idea  of  his  peculiar  character  and  worth — by  quoting  a  favourite  phrase 
of  his  own — 

' '  Love  him,  for  lie  loved  Katuie." 

Allan  is  buried  at  Kensal  Green,  under  a  monument  of  granite,  and  his  admirable 
wife  now  rests  by  his  side, 

I  have  wished  they  were  sleeping  in  some  green  graveyard  in  Nithsdale."^ 
His  son  Peter  has  died  since  this  memory  was  written.  He  had  done  much,  but 
might  have  done  and  ought  to  have  done  much  more.  Unhappily,  his  was  a  com- 
paratively wasted  life — wilfully  wasted ;  and  his  work  was  therefore  too  early  done. 
Yet  he  did  some  excellent  things,  and  did  them  well :  some  of  his  books  have  become 
text  books,  especially  useful  to  the  antiquary  and  the  historian.  Another  son, 
Colonel  Cunningham,  an  author  of  ability  and  a  distinguished  officer,  has  also  been, 
more  recently,  called  from  earth. 

*  I  have  heard  it  said  that  when  Chantrey  was  building  a  mausoleum  to  receive  his  remains,  and  offered  to 
leave  space  for  his  friend  and  associate,  he  received  from  Allan  this  answer,  "  No  !  I  would  far  rather  rest  where  the 
daisies  will  grow  over  my  grave."  I  quote  in  application  to  Allan  some  lines  from  the  grand  and  touching  poem  of 
Theodore  Martin  on  the  burial  of  Thoirfas  Campbell  :— 

"  Thou,  Mke  me,  hast  seen  another  grave  would  suit  our  Poet  well, 
Greenly  banded  by  the  breekan  in  a  lonely  Highland  dell, 
Looking  on  the  solemn  waters  of  a  mighty  inland  sea. 
In  the  shadow  of  a  mountain,  where  the  lonely  eagles  be  ; 
Thou  hast  seen  the  kindly  heather  blown  around  his  simple  bed  ; 
Heard  the  loch  and  torrent  mingle  dii-ges  for  the  poet  dead  ; 
Brother,  thou  hast  seen  him  lying,  as  it  is  thy  hope  to  lie, 
Looking  from  the  soil  of  Scotland  up  into  a  Scottish  sky  : 
It  may  be  such  grave  were  better,  better  rain  and  dew  should  fall, 
Tears  of  hopeful  love  to  freshen  Nature's  ever-verdant  pall. 

Better  after-times  should  find  him — to  his  rest  in  homage  bound — 
Lying  in  the  land  that  bore  him,  with  its  glories  piled  around." 


THOMAS  KEBBLE  HERVEY.  43 ( 


THOMAS   KEBBLE   HEEVEY. 

Another  poet  of  the  second  class,  who  achieved  a  fair  amount  of  popularity,  was 
T,  K.  Hervey.  His  poem  of  the  "  Convict  Ship  "  was  a  production  of  considerable 
merit ;  and  among  his  lyrics,  there  are  many  of  much  sweetness  and  beauty.  He 
was  for  several  years  editor  of  the  AthentBum,  a  post  in  which  he  was  succeeded  by 
Mr.  Hepworth  Dixon.  Nature  had  not  been  to  the  poet  lavish  of  personal  gifts.  A 
"  plainer  "  man  was  never  inspired  by  the  Muse.  There  is  not  much  to  say  of  him 
that  it  would  be  agreeable  to  say. 

He  died  in  February,  1859.  Of  late  he  wrote  much  for  the  Art-Journal,  and  all 
my  transactions  with  him  were  entirely  satisfactory.  His  mind  was  largely  stored  ; 
he  wrote  with  much  graceful  facility  ;  and,  as  a  critic,  his  judgment  was  generally 
sound  and  just. 

If  I  must  place  him  below  the  great  "makers,"  whose  names  precede  his  in  this 
volume,  I  must  class  him  above  the  host  of  minor  poets,  of  whom  our  age  has  been 
so  amazingly  fertile.  Some  of  his  productions,  indeed,  verge  upon  the  higher 
standard  ;  and  none  of  them  are  much  beneath  it. 

His  imagination  was  rich  and  vigorous  ;  and  his  versification  exceedingly  easy 
and  graceful.  He  avoided  the  error  into  which  so  many  of  his  contemporaries  have 
fallen — the  effort  to  be  effective  by  the  sacrifice  of  nature,  under  the  idea  that  the 
artificialities  and  affectations  of  the  old  poets  were  the  secrets  of  their  success,  for- 
getting that  imitation  is  always  perilous,  and  that  it  is  far  less  easy  to  copy  perfec- 
tions than  defects. 

He  was  the  editor  of  a  work  that  did  much  good— "  Illustrations  of  Modern 
Sculpture,"  each  subject  being  introduced  by  a  poem  from  his  pen.  It  was  one  of 
the  earlier  "  helps  "  to  render  British  sculpture  popular.  He  lived  to  see  that  art,  so 
long  depressed  in  England,  attain  a  degree  of  prosperity  which  he  hoped  for,  rather 
than  expected. 


SAMUEL   EOGEES. 


who  were   clenizens  of  London  during  the  twenty   years    that 
preceded   the   last    twenty  years — no   longer   ago — met  fre- 
quently in  the   aristocratic  neighbourhood   of   St.  James's  a 
man  evidently  aged,  yet  remarkably    active,   though  with   a 
slight  stoop  and  grizzled   hair ;  not,  to  my  thinking,  with  a 
pleasant  countenance  ;  certainly  not  with  the  frank  and  free 
expression  of  a  poet  who  loved  and  lived  with  Nature ;  but 
rather  that  of  one  whose  ever-open  book  was  a  ledger,  and 
who  counted  the  day,  not  by  sunrise  and  sunset,  but  by  Con- 
sols and  Exchequer  bills — things  inconceivable  to  the  Order 
to  which  Samuel  Rogers  undoubtedly  belonged. 

The  old  man  moved  rapidly,  as  if  pursuing  a  vain  shadow,  always. 
He  did  not  often  smile,  and  seldom  laughed ;  anything  approaching 
hilarity,  aught  akin  to  enthusiasm,  to  a  genuine  flow  of  heart  and  soul,  was 
foreign  to  his  nature — or,  at  all  events,  seemed  to  be  so.  Yet,  of  a  surety, 
he  was  a  keen  observer;  he  looked  "quite  through  the  deeds  of  men;"  and  his 
natural  talent  had  been  matured  and  polished  by  long  and  familiar  intercourse  with 


SAMUEL   ROGERS.  433 


all  the  finer  spirits  of  his  age.  His  conversation  to  his  "  set "  at  home  was  remark- 
ably brilliant,  and  his  wit  often  pure  and  original. 

It  was  curious,  interesting,  and  startling  to  converse — as  I  did — in  the  year  of 
our  Lord  1855,  with  a  venerable  gentleman  whose  first  book  of  poems  was  published 
in  1786 — ^just  sixty-nine  years ;  who  had  worn  a  cocked  hat  when  a  boy,  as  other 
boys  did — recollected  seeing  the  heads  of  the  "rebels"  upon  poles  at  Temple  Bar — 
had  seen  Garrick  act — knocked  at  Dr.  Johnson's  door  in  Bolt  Court,  and  chatted 
there  with  Boswell — heard  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  lecture,  and  Haydn  play  at  a  concert 
in  a  tie  wig  with  a  sword  at  his  side — rowed  with  a  boatman  who  had  rowed 
Alexander  Pope — had  seen  venerable  John  Wesley  lying  on  his  bier  "  dressed  in  full 
canonicals  " — had  walked  with  old  General  Oglethorpe,  who  had  shot  snipes  where 
Conduit  Street  now  stands — was  the  frequent  associate  of  Fox,  Burke,  Sheridan, 
Mackintosh,  Home  Tooke,  and  Madame  de  Stael — and  was  a  man  "  in  years  "  when 
Brougham  was  called  to  the  Bar,  John  Kemble  first  played  Coriolanus,  Walter  Scott 
had  not  yet  issued  "  Waverley,"  Byron  was  writing  "  Minor  Poems,"  and  Ensign 
Arthur  Wellesley  was  fighting  his  way  to  a  dukedom  and  immortality  ! 

It  seems  to  me,  while  writing  a  Memory  of  this  veteran  of  literature — as  it  will 
seem  to  my  readers — that  although  he  was  with  us  but  yesterday,  he  belongs  to  a 
remote  generation  :  he  had  seen  and  known  his  co-mates  in  their  youth,  when  the 
earliest  rays  of  Fame  dawned  upon  them ;  many  of  them  he  had  followed  to  their 
graves  ;  and  very  few  of  them  survived  him.  , 

It  is  a  strange  story  to  tell  of  any  man. 

There  is  no  biography  of  him,  if  we  except  that  written  by  his  nephew, 
Mr.  Sharpe,  as  a  "Preface"  to  "  Recollections,"  and  another  which  introduces  a 
volume  of  "  Table  Talk."  Neither  of  these  extends  to  more  than  a  dozen  pages. 
They  are  singularly  meagre,  as  if  the  writers  had  done  the  work  grudgingly,  had  no 
love  for  the  subject,  and  were  content  to  let  the  old  man  say  for  himself  all  he  had  to 
say.  And  that  was  not  much.  It  is,  indeed,  a  marvel  that  so  little  was  gathered 
during  so  long  and  so  full  a  life  ;  for  in  these  two  volumes  of  "  Remains  "  it  would 
be  difficult  to  find  a  score  of  passages  that  one  would  not  willingly  let  die.  His  fre- 
quent companion,  the  publisher  Moxon, — one  of  his  executors,  who  must  have  known 
much  about  his  "ways," — has  told  us  nothing  concerning  him  ;  and  such  anecdotes 
as  throw  any  light  on  his  character  must  be  gathered  from  his  contemporaries,  who 
here  and  there,  and  but  rarely,  illustrate  and  explain  the  guiding  principles  of  his 
public  and  private  life.  Yet  it  is  stated  by  the  editor  of  "  Recollections  "  (not  recol- 
lections of  him,  but  hy  him),  that,  "from  his  first  entering  into  society,  he  noted 
down  the  conversations  or  remarks  of  those  among  his  intimate  friends  in  whose 
company  he  took  the  greatest  pleasure." 

In  reference  to  his  Life  I  received  this  letter  from  Mr.  Rogers,  dated 

"  St.  James's  Place,  January  2>Qth,  1837. 

"  Believe  me  when  I  say,  I  should  be  happy  to  comply  with  your  desire  if  I  had  any  intention 
of  writing  my  own  life.  vv  u  j 

''  The  only  authentic  account  I  can  refer  you  to  is  to  he  found,  such  as  it  is,  m  a  work  published 
some  years  ago  by  Cad  ell,  and  entitled,  I  believe,  '  Portraits  of  Illustrious  Persons.' 

"Most  of  the  cii-cumstances  in  the  Life  published  by  Galignani  are  utterly  without  foundation. 


434  MEMORIES. 


The  '  Pleasures  of  Memory  '  (to  mention  one  instance  among  many)  was  written  in  great  seclusion 
under  my  father's  roof;  and  so  far  from  consulting  the  gentleman  there  mentioned  on  the  subject, 
I  was  at  that  time  unacquainted  with  him.  He  is  there  said,  I  think,  to  have  read  it  over  with 
me,  before  it  appeared,  fifty  or  sixty  times. 

"Yours  very  (rul J', 

"Samuel  Rogers." 

Rogers  was  born  at  Stoke  Newington  (Newington  Green),  now  a  suburb  of 
London,  on  the  30th  of  July,  1763.  His  father  was  an  opulent  banker,  head  of  the 
firm  of  Rogers,  Olding,  and  Co.*  His  first  publication — an  "  Ode  to  Superstition  " 
— was  issued  in  1786.  In  1792  appeared  "  The  Pleasures  of  Memory,"  to  which  he 
is  mainly  indebted  for  his  fame. 

He  died  at  his  residence,  St.  James's  Place,  on  the  18th  of  December,  1855. 

His  countenance  was  the  theme  of  continual  jokes.  It  was  "  ugly,"  if  not  repul- 
sive. The  expression  was  in  no  way,  nor  under  any  circumstances,  good  ;  he  had  a 
drooping  eye  and  a  thick  under  lip  ;  his  forehead  was  broad,  his  head  large — out  of 
proportion,  indeed,  to  his  form;  but  it  was  without  the  organs  of  benevolence  and 
veneration,  although  preponderating  in  that  of  ideality.  His  features  were  "  cada- 
verous." Lord  Dudley  once  asked  him  why,  now  that  he  could  afford  it,  he  did  not 
set  up  his  hearse ;  and  it  is  said  that  Sydney  Smith  gave  him  mortal  offence  by 
recommending  him,  "when  he  sat  for  his  portrait,  to  be  drawn  saying  his  prayers, 
with  his  face  hidden  by  his  hands." 

It  was  afiirmed  by  some  of  his  friends  that  "his  purse  was  ever  open  to  the  dis- 
tressed," and  that  he  was  liberal  of  aid  to  struggling  and  suffering  genius.  That 
belief,  however,  is  not  sustained  by  evidence.  From  him  to  whom  much  is  given, 
much  is  expected;  the  widow's  mite  was  a  larger,  as  well  as  a  more  acceptable,  gift 
to  the  treasury  than  the  Pharisee's  contribution  of  the  tithe  of  all  he  possessed. 
Rogers  was  rich,  had  few  claimants  on  his  "  much,"  and  his  personal  wants  were 
limited.  He  seems,  indeed,  to  have  had  no  great  relish  for  the  luxuries  that  money 
supplies,  and  which  it  is  a  duty  to  obtain  on  the  part  of  those  to  whom  wealth  is 
allotted.  He  saw  little  company  at  his  own  house  ;  giving  breakfasts  frequently,  the 
cost  of  which  was  small,  and  seldom  entertaining  at  dinner  above  two  or  three  at  a 
time.  Moreover,  they  were  dinners  of  no  very  recherche  character ;  at  all  events, 
none  of  his  guests  ever  spoke  of  them  as  the  feasts  of  a  Sybarite.  He  never,  I 
believe,  kept  a  carriage — certainly,  if  he  did,  he  seldom  used  it.  On  occasions  when 
he  attended  meetings  of  the  Royal  Society,  and  other  assemblages  of  that  kind,  at 
the  close,  let  the  night  be  ever  so  severe,  if  rain  or  snow  were  falling,  he  was 
invariably  seen  buttoning  up  his  great-coat  in  preparation  for  a  walk  home.  On  one 
occasion  I  ventured  to  say  to  him  (it  was  at  an  Evening  at  Lord  Northampton's, 
in  Connaught  Place),  "  Mr.  Rogers,  it  is  a  very  wet  night ;  I  have  a  fly  at  the  door  '. 
may  I  have  the  honour  to  leave  you  at  your  house  ?  "  but  the  invitation  was 
declined ;  the  old  man  faced  the  weather,  from  which  younger  and  stronger  men 
would  have  wisely  shrunk. 

I  cannot  find  evidence  to  sustain  an  impression  that  he  was  other  than  by  fits  and 
starts  generous  ;  that  it  was  not  an  impulse,   but  a  whim,  that  induced  him  occa- 

*  The  bank,  which  had  become  a  "  joint-stock"  concern,  failed  in  one  of  the  panics. 


SAMUEL   ROGERS. 


435 


sionally  to  give  a  little  of  his  "  much."  There  are  certainly  a  few  records  of  his 
liberaUty — and  but  a  few  :  none  are  related  in  the  two  volumes  of  "  Table  Talk  " 
and  "  Recollections."  Moore  spoke  of  him  to  me,  and  no  doubt  to  others,  as  a  man 
with  an  open  purse  ;  but  I  do  not  find  that  he  ever  did  more  for  the  poet  than  lend 
him  a  sum  that  was  repaid  with  interest. 

His  charities  were  certainly  often  based  on  calculation.  "  He  did  nothing  rash," 
Mr.  Hayward  states.  "  I  am  sure,"  said  one  of  his  friends,  "  as  a  baby,  he  never  fell 
down  unless  he  was  pushed  ;  but  walked  from  chair  to  chair  in  the  drawing-room 
steadily  and  quietly,  till  he  reached  a  place  where  the  sunbeam  fell  on  the  carpet." 
And  Byron,  writing  to  Bernard  Barton,  asks,  "  To  what  does  Rogers  owe  his  station 
in  society,  and  his  intimacy  in  the  best  circles  ?  "  Not  to  his  profession  as  an 
author,  but  "to  his  prudence  and  respectability." 

No;  "to  do  good  and  to  distribute"  was  not  the  motto  of  the  banker-poet, 
although  some  may  have  tasted  of  his  bounty.* 

No  doubt  he  was  often  Avorried  by  applications  for  aid  ;  some  from  fraudulent 
petitioners,  but  some  from  persons  to  whom  timely  helps  might  have  been  great 
blessings — probably  saved  the  lives,  possibly  the  souls,  of  those  who  asked  it. 

He  writes — "  The  letters  I  receive  from  people  of  both  sexes  (people  I  have  never 
heard  of)  asking  me  for  money,  either  as  a  gift  or  a  loan,  are  really  innumerable  ;  " 
but  it  is  evident  from  the  context  that  such  "  begging  epistles  "  produced  no  results 
to  the  writers.  It  is  recorded  that  Murphy  owed  him  £200  ;  the  poet  became 
"uneasy,"  and  accompanied  Murphy  to  his  chambers  to  be  paid.  Once  there,  how- 
ever. Murphy,  instead  of  paying  the  existing  debt,  laboured  hard  to  borrow  more — 
an  attempt  which  the  poet  successfully  resisted.  Rogers  afterwards  took  as  security 
an  assignment  of  the  whole  of  Murphy's  works  (including  his  "  Tacitus  "),  but  found 
they  had  been  previously  disposed  of  to  a  bookseller.  And  in  the  "  Table  Talk  " 
there  is  a  note  that  Shelley  called  upon  Rogers — introducing  himself — to  request  the 
loan  of  some  money  which  he  wished  to  present  to  Leigh  Hunt,  offering  Rogers  a 
bond  for  it.  Rogers  says,  "  Having  numerous  claims  upon  me  at  that  time,  I  was 
obliged  to  refuse  the  loan." 

It  is  reported  of  him  that  once  he  loved  ;  at  least,  that,  when  a  young  man,  he 
sedulously  sought  the  society  of  the  most  beautiful  girl  he  thought  he  had  seen.  At 
the  end  of  the  London  season,  at  a  ball,  she  said,  "  To-morrow  I  go  to  Worthing  : 
are  you  coming  there  ?  "  Some  months  afterwards,  being  at  Ranelagh,  he  saw  the 
attention  of  many  drawn  towards  a  lady  who  was  leaning  on  the  arm  of  her  husband. 
Stepping  forward  to  see  this  wonderful  beauty,  he  found  it  was  his  old  flame.  She 
merely  said,  "  You  never  came  to  Worthing !  "  Who  shall  say  that  the  selfish  cynic 
might  not  have  been  another  man — a  better  and  a  far  happier  man — if  he  had  gone 
to  Worthing  ? 

Moore,  one  of  the  few  of  his  friends  who  really  regarded  Rogers,  thus  writes  in 
a  letter  to  Lady  Donegal: — "I  felt  as  I  always  feel  with  him — that  the  fear  of 
losing  his  good  opinion  almost  embitters  the  possession  of  it ;  and  that,  though  in  his 

*  Rogers,  if  we  are  to  credit  the  "Table  Talk,"  once  said,  "What  a  noble-minded  person  Lord  Lonsdale  was  ! 
I  have  received  from  him  hundreds  of  pounds  for  the  relief  of  literary  men." 

P   F  2 


436  MEMORIES. 


society  one  walks  upon  roses,  it  is  with  constant  apprehension  of  the  thorns  that  are 
among  them. 

And  subsequently  Moore  thus  alludes  to  Rogers  as  a  critic  : — "  He  only  finds 
fault  with  every  part  in  detail ;  and  this  you  know  is  the  style  of  his  criticism  of 
characters."  And  Lady  Donegal,  in  reply,  speaks  of  his  "sickly  and  discontented 
turn  of  mind,  which  makes  him  dissatisfied  with  everything,  and  disappointed  in  all 
his  views  of  Hfe  ;  "  alluding,  also,  to  his  "  unfortunate  habit  of  dwelling  upon  the 
faults  and  follies  of  his  friends." 

There  is  an  anecdote  recorded  by  Lady  Holland  in  her  Memoirs  of  her  father, 
Sydney  Smith,  that,  perhaps,  more  than  any  other,  illustrates  the  character  of 
Rogers  ;  it  is  this  : — "  One  day  Rogers  took  Moore  and  my  father  home  in  a  carriage 
from  a  breakfast,  and  insisted  on  showing  them,  by  the  way,  Dryden's  house  in  some 
obscure  street.  It  was  very  wet ;  the  house  looked  much  like  other  old  houses  ;  and 
having  thin  shoes  on,  they  both  remonstrated ;  but  in  vain.  Rogers  got  out,  and 
stood  expecting  them.  '  Oh  !  you  see  why  Rogers  doesn't  mind  getting  out,'  exclaimed 
my  father,  laughing  and  leaning  out  of  the  carriage ;   '  he  has  got  goloshes  on  !  '  " 

When  Turner  illustrated  his  poems,  the  artist  was  to  have  received  £50  apiece  for 
the  drawings.  But  Rogers  objected  to  the  price,  which  he  had  "  miscalculated,"  and 
Turner  agreed  to  take  them  all  back,  receiving  £5  each  for  the  use  of  them.  The 
banker  did  not  foresee  a  time  when  the  purchase  would  have  been  a  very  good  specu- 
lation indeed :  if  he  had,  there  is  little  doubt  that  he  would  have  paid  for  them.*  He 
made  other  bargains  that  were  more  remunerative:  the  famous  "Puck"  of  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds  he  purchased  for  £215  5s. 

The  house  in  which  he  passed  so  many  years  of  his  life — from  the  year  1803  to 
its  close — in  St.  James's  Place,  is  still  there  ;  but  it  is  not  a  shrine  that  any  pilgrim 
will  much  care  to  visit.  Few  great  men  of  the  age  have  excited  so  little  hero- 
worship  ;  those  who  would  have  been  mourners  at  his  funeral  had  preceded  him  to 
the  tomb  ;  he  left  none  to  honour  or  to  cherish  his  memory.  His  house  had  been 
full  of  art-luxuries,  gathered  by  judicious  expenditure  of  wealth,  and  by  highly-culti- 
vated taste  ;  they  were  scattered  by  the  hammer  of  the  auctioneer  after  his  death, 
and  are  the  gems  of  a  hundred  collections.  Yet  the  house  will  be  always  one  of 
the  memorable  dwellings  of  London.  "  It  was,"  I  borrow  the  eloquent  words  of 
Mr.  Hay  ward,  "  here  that  Erskine  told  the  story  of  his  first  brief,  and  Grattan  that 
of  his  last  duel ;  that  Wellington  described  Waterloo  as  a  '  battle  of  giants  ; '  that 
Chantrey,  placing  his  hand  on  a  mahogany  pedestal,  asked  the  host  he  then  honoured 
by  his  presence — '  Do  you  remember  a  workman  who,  at  five  shillings  a  day,  came 
in  at  that  door  to  receive  your  orders  ?  I  was  that  workman !  '  There  had  assembled 
Byron,  Moore,  Scott,  Campbell,  Wordsworth,  Washington  Irving,  Coleridge,  Sydney 
Smith,  Sheridan,  and  a  host  of  other  immortal  men,  who  gave  renown  to  the  nine- 
teenth century." 

No  ;  the  aed  banker-poet  who  had  lived  so  long,  seen  so  much,  been  intimate 
with  so  many  of  the  great  men  and  v/omen  of  the  epoch,  who  had  all  his  life  held 


SAMUEL   ROGERS.  437 


"  in  trust "  a  huge  amount  of  wealth,  with  its  weighty  responsibilities,  has  not 
bequeathed  to  us  a  "  Memory  "  that  may  be  either  venerated  or  loved.  From  no 
"  sort  of  men  "  did  he  gather  "  golden  opinions  ;  "  his  heart  was  in  a  perpetual  soli- 
tude ;  he  seemed  continually  to  quail  under  the  burden  of  "  a  discontented  and 
repining  spirit,"  although  God  had  been  specially  bountiful  to  him  in  all  the  good 
things  of  earth.  He  might  have  been  a  vast  blessing  to  thousands  :  those  who 
owed  him  aught  that  was  not  repaid  may  surely  be  counted  by  units.  In  all  I  have 
heard  and  read  concerning  him  I  cannot  find  evidence  that  he  had,  at  any  time, 
"  learned  the  luxury  of  doing  good." 

He  himself  states  that  Madame  de  Stael  once  said  to  him,  "  How  very  sorry  I 
am  for  Campbell !  His  poverty  so  unsettles  his  mind  that  he  cannot  write."  This 
was  the  answer  of  Rogers  : — "  Why  does  he  not  take  the  situation  of  a  clerk  ?  He 
could  then  compose  verses  during  his  leisure  hours  ;  "  and  he  adds,  "I  shall  never 
forget  the  delight  with  which,  on  returning  home  [from  his  bank  to  his  mansion],  I 
used  to  read  and  write  during  the  evening  ;  "  moralising  thus  :  "  When  literature  is 
the  sole  business  of  life,  it  becomes  a  drudgery :  when  we  are  able  to  resort  to  it 
only  at  certain  times,  it  is  a  charming  relaxation." 

Ah  !  had  he  but  known  what  it  is  to  "  sweat  the  brain  "  not  only  all  day  long, 
but  far  into  midnight ;  to  toil  when  the  hand  shakes  and  the  head  aches  from  over- 
work— when  the  labour  of  to-day  must  earn  the  sustenance  of  to-morrow,  and  not 
always  that ;  to  work,  work,  work,  and  be  sent  by  nature,  hungry,  to  sleep  that  is 
not  rest;  to  endure  far  worse  than  these  physical  sufferings — "the  proud  man's 
contumely,"  the  consciousness  of  power  while  fetters  gall  and  fret ;  heart-sick  from 
hope  deferred ;  a  gleam  of  far-off  glory  that  scorches  the  brow  ;  the  thousand  ills 
that  "  unsettle  the  mind,"  so  that  the  hand  cannot  write  !  Ay,  authorship  may  be 
"a  pleasant  relaxation  "  when  it  is  not  a  means  by  which  men  live  ;  when,  well  or 
ill,  sad  or  merry,  in  joy  or  in  sorrow,  prosperous  or  afflicted — no  matter  which — 
there  is  that  to  be  done  which  must  be  done,  and  which  may  not  be  postponed 
because  it  is  "  a  drudgery." 

When  Rogers  uttered  these  words  in  protest  against  the  generous  sympathy  of 
Madame  de  Stael,  there  were  men  starving  in  London  streets,  whose  minds  were 
pregnant  with  even  gi-eater  creations  than  the  "  Pleasures  of  Memory"  or  "  Human 
Life,"  and  who  gave  them  to  the  world  before  they  left  it.  Crabbe  may,  by  that 
time,  have  found  means  to  buy,  and  pay  for,  food  and  clothes ;  Campbell  may  have 
been  on  the  eve  of  rescue  from  poverty  by  the  pension  he  earned  and  gained  ; 
Southey  may  have  had  his  home  fireside  cheered  by  a  remittance  from  Murray ;  and 
Leigh  Hunt  may  have  stayed  the  cravings  of  angry  creditors  by  aid  of  some  sympa- 
thising friend ;  but  there  were  scores  of  great  men  obscurely  hidden  in  mighty 
London,  whose  struggles  with  penury  would  appal  those  whom  "  pleasure,  ease,  and 
affluence  surround" — enduring  "all  the  sad  varieties  of  woe,"  some  of  whom  may 
have  made  their  wants  known,  while  others  triumphantly  averted  the  bitter  end, 
though  others  were  voluntary  victims  before  their  work  was  half  done. 

It  might  have  been  the  glory  of  Samuel  Rogers  to  have  helped  them  out  of  the 
Slough  of  Despond. 


MAEY   EUSSELL   MITFOED. 


whose 
the  gr 


AEY   EUSSELL    MITFOED   was    born    on    the    16th   of 
December,  in  the  year  1786,  at  the  little  town  of  Aires- 
ford  in  Hampshire.*     Her  father  was  George  Mitford, 
M.D.,  the  son  of  a  younger  branch  of  the  Mitfords,  of 
Mitford  Castle,  Northumberland,  and  Jane  Graham,  of 
Old   Wall,    Westmoreland,    a    branch    of  the    Netherby 
Clan.     Her  mother  was  Mary  Eussell,  the  only  surviving 
child  and  heiress   of   Eichard   Eussell,   D.D.,   who    for 
more  than  sixty  years  was  Eector  of  Ashe  and  Tadley, 
and  Vicar  of  Overton,  in  Hampshire.     He  was  the  intimate  associate  of 
Fielding  and  many  of  the  wits  of  the  period,  remembered  to  have  seen 
Pope  at  Westminster  School,  and  died  at  the  ripe  age  of  eighty-eight. 

Three  or  four  years  after  the  birth  of  his  daughter,  Mary  Eussell, 
Dr.  Mitford  removed  from  Alresford  to  Eeading,  and  a  few  years  subse- 
quently to  that  removal  he  went  to  reside  at  Lyme  Regis,  Dorsetshire, 
in  a  fine  old  mansion  previously  occupied  by  the  great  Lord  Chatham, 
two  sons  frequently  spent  their  holidays  there.     The  French  Revolution  and 
eat  continental  wars,  with  threats  of  invading  England,  brought  prominently 


to  whom 


I  am  indebted  for  muoh  mformition  concerning  Miss  Mitford  to  my  valued  friend,  Fi'anois  Bennooh,  F.S.A., 
om  she  was  much  attached,  and  who  repaid  her  fiiendship  by  useful  and  zealous  service  dming  the  later  years 


MARY  RUSSELL   MLTFORD.  ..r. 

4j>9 


out  the  patriotic  spirit  of  the  nation.  The  militia  was  trained,  volunteer  corps  were 
formed,  and  the  yeomanry  cavahy  was  thoroughly  prepared  to  aid  in  repelling  any 
invader  of  the  sacred  soil  of  England.  Dr.  Mitford,  at  his  own  cost,  raised, 
equipped,  and  maintained  a  troop  of  yeomanry  cavalry  at  an  expense  that  few  could 
bear,  and  he  was  not  long  in  discovering  that  just  in  proportion  as  his  popularity 
rose,  his  fortune  fell.  In  a  few  years  £30,000  or  £40,000  had  disappeared ;  his  troop 
was  disbanded,  and  he  went  to  London  to  "retrench"  and  determine  his  future 
course.  His  daughter  was  his  companion  ;  and  then  occurred  an  incident  in  the  life 
of  Miss  Mitford  that  reads  like  a  page  from  a  fairy  tale.  The  circumstances  are 
related  by  her  in  her  "Recollections  of  a  Literary  Life,"  accompanied  by  sundry 
hints  and  suggestions  leading  to  the  conclusion  that  much  of  Dr.  Mitford's  property 
had  vanished  at  the  gaming-table. 

They  were  then  lodged  in  dingy  apartments  near  Westminster  ;  and,  in  the 
intervals  of  his  professional  pursuits,  Dr.  Mitford  would  walk  about  London  with  his 
Httle  girl  holding  his  hand.*  They  one  day  found  their  way  to  a  lottery  office;  the 
child  determined  she  would  have  no  other  ticket  but  that  numbered  2,224  ;  it  was 
obtained  with  some  difficulty,  and  "  turned  up  "  the  prize  of  £20,000.  The  day  was 
her  birthday :  she  was  then  ten  years  old. 

"Ah  me  !"  reflects  Miss  Mitford,  "in  less  than  twenty  years,  what  was  left  of 
the  produce  of  the  ticket  so  strangely  chosen  ?  What,  except  a  Wedgwood  dinner 
service  that  my  father  had  ordered  to  commemorate  the  event,  with  the  Irish  harp 
within  the  border  on  one  side,  and  his  family  crest  on  the  other  ?  That  fragile 
and  perishable  ware  long  outlasted  the  more  perishable  money.  Then  came  long 
years  of  toil  and  struggle  and  anxiety,  and  jolting  over  the  rough  ways  of  the 
world,  and  although  want  often  came  very  close  to  our  door,  it  never  actually 
entered." 

Within  twenty  years  of  the  lottery  prize  (and  notwithstanding  that  other  acqui- 
sitions, inherited  through  the  deaths  of  relatives,  had  more  than  once  repaired  his 
fortunes)  Dr.  Mitford  had  again  run  through  his  property,  little  or  nothing  being  left 
beyond  £3,000  settled  upon  his  wife  as  pin-money.  This,  in  course  of  years,  well- 
nigh  evaporated  also,  as  well  as  different  legacies  left  to  his  daughter,  and  given  up 
by  her  on  various  emergencies.  Then  they  retired  to  a  small  cottage  at  Three-Mile 
Cross,  near  Eeading,  modestly  taken  for  three  months,  but  inhabited  by  them  for 
thirty  years.  And  there  it  was  that  Miss  Mitford,  finding  it  needful  to  turn  her 
talents  to  profitable  account,  began  those  charming  sketches  which  formed  the  first 
series  of  "  Our  Village."  Like  many  other  of  our  now  standard  works,  they  were 
lightly  esteemed  when  first  written.     They  were  declined  by  Campbell,  who  was 


of  her  life.  He  superintended  the  publication  of  "  Atherton"  and  her  dramatic  works.  In  1831  she  gave  me  some 
very  slight  particulars  of  her  life,  which  I  published  to  accompany  a  portrait  of  her  in  the  New  Monthly.  She  states 
there  that  in  very  early  childhood  she  printed  a  poem  entitled  "  Christine,  or  the  Maid  of  the  South  Seas."  I  have 
never  seen  it,  and  I  suppose  few  living  have  seen  it.  Her  friend  and  executor,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Harness,  collected  her 
letters,  &c.,  edited  them,  and  they  were  published  in  1869.  The  duty  of  editor,  however,  principally  devolved  on 
his  friend,  the  Rev.  A.  G.  L'Estrange.  The  good  clergyman,  Mr.  Harness,  has  since  died.  He  added  some  particu- 
lars— but  they  are  scanty — concerning  her  life . 

*    The  early  years  of  her  life  were  passed  at  22,  Hans  Place,  at  a  school  then  kept  by  a  French  refugee,  M.  F. 
Quintin ;  and  theie  Lfetitia  Landon,  twenty  years  afterwards,  was  educated. 


440 


MEMORIES. 


then  editor  of  the  New  Monthly  Magazine,  and  rejected  also  by  the  editors  of  several 
other  periodicals,  but  at  last  found  favour  in  the  eyes  of  the  editor  of  the  Lady's 
Magazine,  where  they  were  published.     In  1823  they  were  collected  in  one  volume, 

•  and  never  after  had  the  author  occa- 
sion to  beg  the  acceptance  of  any 
work  from  her  pen.  The  first  series 
of  "  Our  Village  "  was  followed  by 
a  second  in  1826,  a  third  in  1828,  a 
fourth  in  1830,  and  a  fifth  in  1832. 
In  1842  she  lost  her  father  (her 
^        ^  ^  mother  had  died  in  1830)  ;  and  in 

Pi         M^      1^  *^^  autumn  of  1851  she  left  her  old 

"i::^       ]^  \       ^^       cv  1  cottage  at  Three-Mile  Cross  (in  which 

she  had  resided  since  1820)  for  an- 
other at  Swallowfield,  about  three 
miles  farther  south,  where  her  later 
works  were  written.  In  the  imme- 
diate neighbourhood  resided  Lady 
Russell,  who  generously  ministered 
to  the  wants  of  the  aged,  but  ever- 
cheerful,  authoress.  A  few  miles  off 
in  a  quiet  valley  lies  Strathfieldsaye, 
the  doors  of  which  were  ever  open 
to  Miss  Mitford,  whence,  too,  by 
special  command  of  the  great  Duke, 
the  choicest  fruits  of  the  season, 
which  meant  all  the  year  round,  were 
sure  to  find  their  way  to  Swallow- 
field.  At  Eversley,  Kingsley  preached 
and  laboured  as  a  country  parson, 
and  found  much  pleasure  in  his 
walks  to  the  cosy  cottage,  and  in 
the  lively  talk  of  its  occupant. 

In  her  youth  Miss  Mitford  was 
much  in  London,  with  every  oppor- 
tunity of  seeing  and  mingling  in 
the  best  society,  with  occasional 
glimpses  of  shadow  that  brought  out 
the  brighter  points  of  the  picture. 
Admired  and  appreciated  by  a  large 
number  of  literary  folk  of  her  own  standing,  she  saw  much,  spoke  freely,  and  in  her 
later  years  became  the  kindly  critic  and  literary  adviser  of  many  of  the  rising  and 
now  risen  spirits  of  the  age.  Her  closing  years  were  passed  in  the  serene  quiet  of 
a  country  village,  cheered  by  the  kindness  of  neighbouring  families,  enlivened  by  the 


MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD. 


441 


frequent  visits  of  admiring  friends,  and  keeping  up  a  free,  but  almost  voluminous 
correspondence  with  distinguished  people  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic. 

Miss  Mitford — if  opinion  may  be  formed  from  her  correspondence  and  the  collected 
incidents  of  her  life — never  had  a  lover ;  yet  it  is  difficult  to  reconcile  that  behef 
with  the  following  statement,  communicated  to  Mrs.  Hall  by  Mrs.  Holland,  one  of 
Miss  Mitford's  nearest,  dearest,  and  most  intimate  friends.  Mrs.  Hofland's  letter  is 
so  remarkable  that  I  print  it : — ■ 

"  Och!  to  be  sure,  my  dear  honey,  and  it's  yer  own  swate  self  that  is  quite  ignorant  of  the 
most  wonder  fullest,  astonishing  surprise  that  is  just  come  upon  a  body,  and  that  has  done  a  body's 
heart  good  to  think  about ;  an'  niver  a  word  the  spalpeen  writers  in  the  Times  has  tould  us  about 


THRKE-MILB   CBOSS. 


it ;  bekase  ye  see  she  commanded  her  nebour  (the  father  0'  them)  to  hould  their  black  and  white 
tongues,  and  niver  mintion  the  particular  case  ;  but  as  to  not  telling  you,  my  dare,  all  as  I  just 
happen  to  know,  why  it's  out  0'  the  question— so  here  goes.  Miss  Mary  Mitford  is  married, 
honestly  married  to  one  of  her  own  kith  and  kin ;  a  true  Mitford,  though  his  relationship  is  a 
mighty  way  off.  And  he  has  taken  her  down  to  his  own  fine  estate  and  noble  oiild  mansion  and 
made  her  who  was  a  rale  lady  asy  for  the  rest  of  her  days,  and  her  parents  asy  too  :  an  it  that 
isn't  good  news,  what  is,  honey  dear  ?  v    -u      ^       v, 

"  In  plain  English,  my  dear  Mrs.  Hall,  this  is  the  fact,  not  communicated  to  me  by  her,  tor  she 
has  not  told  any  hving  creature— for  what  reason  I  do  not  know,  but  I  conjecture  that  it  may  not 
interfere  with  the  arrangements  respecting  her  forthcoming  tragedy.  I  have  no  doubt  that  the 
song  printed  in  your  excellent  magazine  was  written  in  reference  to  this  gentleman,  who  was 
attached  to  her  in  early  life,  but  could  not  then  marry,  and  whom  she  had  not  seen  for  many  yeais. 
until  within  a  few  very  weeks.  The  marriage  and  all  the  arrangements  have  been  kept  a  protound 
secret;  and  they  are  «one  to  his  seat  in  Northumberland.  They  are  perfectly  suited  in  age  ;  ne 
is  a  man  of  great  abilities  and  proud  of  her  fame ;  so  that  there  is  every  prospect  ot  happiness 
No  woman  wanted  a  friend  more,  or  deserved  one  better ;  and  I  sincerely  thank  brod  she  tias  touna 
such  a  friend." 


442  MEMORIES. 


On  the  10th  of  January,  1855,  she  died,  and  was  quietly  laid  in  a  corner  of  the 
adjacent  churchyard  of  Swallowfield,  in  a  spot  chosen  by  herself.  There  a  few 
friends  erected  a  simple  granite  cross  to  perpetuate  the  memory  and  mark  the 
resting-place  of  one  of  England's  purest  and  sweetest  writers.''- 

The  family  name  was  originally  Midford :  when  or  why  it  was  changed  does  not 
appear  to  be  known.  Her  father  was  a  remarkably  fine  old  man— tall,  handsome, 
and  stately,  with  indubitable  indications  of  the  habits  of  refined  life.  All  his  life 
long  he  had  exaggerated  value  of  himself,  and  was  the  very  embodiment  of  selfish- 
ness. That  terrible  defect  in  character  was  encouraged  and  strengthened  by  his 
wife  and  daughter.  They  seem  to  have  considered  it  an  honour  to  be  his  slaves, 
and  to  have  derived  happiness  from  any  sacrifices  that  could  enhance  his  pleasure.  He 
v^as  their  "  dear  darling,"  their  "  itty  pet,"  their  "  tenderly  beloved,"  all  the  while 
that  he  was  squandering,  shamefully  and  shamelessly,  not  only  the  inherited  property 
of  the  one,  but  the  hardly-earned  fruits  of  daily  and  nightly  toil  of  the  other. 
They  could  see  no  fault  in  the  husband  and  father.  At  length  his  recklessness  and 
beartlessness  steeped  them  in  poverty — "  want  came  very  near  their  door  " — they 
seem  to  have  attributed  no  blame  to  him,  though  he  was  all  blame,  and  he  appears 
to  have  given  no  thought  to  the  privations  they  endured  and  the  misery  they  suf- 
fered. It  is  a  melancholy  and  very  degrading  picture — that  which  brings  before  us 
the  sensualist  at  his  club  in  London,  and  the  wife  and  daughter  in  their  poor  cottage, 
beseeching  him  to  send  them  if  but  a  pound,  which  he  graciously  does,  and  which 
they  acknowledge  humbly  and  gratefully.  He  died,  of  course,  in  debt ;  and  the  friends 
of  Miss  Mitford  subscribed  to  raise  a  fund  for  the  discharge  of  liabilities  she  had 
taken  on  herself.     Considerably  more  than  £1,000  was  thus  raised. 

These  are  Mrs.  Hall's  recollections  and  impressions  of  Miss  Mitfoi'd : — 

It  is  a  source  of  intense,  yet  solemn,  enjoyment,  that  which  enables  me  to 
look  back  through  the  green  lanes  of  Memory,  to  recall  the  people  and  events  of  the 
"  long-ago  time." 

"  You  may  break — you  may  niin  the  vase,  if  you  will ; 
But  the  scent  of  the  loses  will  hang  round  it  still." 

They  are  all,  or  nearly  all,  gone,  "  the  old  familiar  faces,"  from  the  old  familiar 
places  ;  but  they  have  been.  I  can  bring  them  back.  I  can  even  hear  their  voices, 
and  quote  some  of  the  sentences  that  passed  from  their  lips  to  my  mind  and  heart. 

If  I  remember  rightly,  it  was  Maria  Edgeworth  w^ho  introduced  me  to  Mrs. 
Hofland,  and  Mrs.  Hofland  who  introduced  me  to  Mary  Eussell  Mitford,  in  1828. 
In  those  days  I  had  an  intense  admiration  for  "  Our  Village  ;  "  and  a  desire — which  I 
thought  most  presumptuous,  and  hardly  at  first  dared  confess  to  myself — to  do  some- 
thing for  my  native  Bannow  like  what  Miss  Mitford  had  done  for  "  Aberleigh."  My 
natural  veneration  for  genius  led   me  to  seek  the   aquaintance  of  those  who  had 

*  In  1837  Miss  Mitford  was  accorded,  hy  Lord  Melbourne,  one  of  the  literary  pensions— £100  a  year.  "  The  sum 
is  small,"  s',  e  writes  ;  but  it  cannot  be  consideied  derogatory,  for  it  was  the  amount  given  to  Mrs.  Heniaus  and 
Mrs.  Somerville.    "  And  it  is,"  she  adds,  a  "  great  comfort  to  have  something  to  look  forward  to  in  sickness  or  old 


MARY  RUSSELL   MITFORD. 


443 


achieved  literary  distinction.  I  was  content  to  be  considered  insignificant  so  long 
as  I  was  permitted  to  enter  the  charmed  circle.  Miss  Mitford  had  visited  her  old 
friend,  Mrs.  Hofland,  then  living  in  Newman  Street,  to  superintend  the  getting  out 
her  play  of  Rienzi — certainly  the  most  perfect  of  her  dramas — at  Covent  Garden ; 
and  Mrs.  Hofland  invited  us  to  meet  her  there  one  morning.  All  the  world  was 
talking  about  the  expected  play,  and  all  the  world  was  paying  court  ^io  its  author. 

"Mary,"  said  the  good  lady,  "is  a  little  grand  and  stilted  just  now.  There  is 
no  doubt  the  tragedy  will  be  a  great  success ;  they  all  say  so  in  the  green-room  ; 
and  Macready  told  me  it  was  a  wonderful  tragedy — an  extraordinary  tragedy  'for  a 


SWALLOWFIELD 


n-oman  to  have  mitten:  The  men  always  make  that  reservation,  my  dear;  they 
cramp  us,  my  dear,  and  then  reproach  us  with  our  lameness ;  but  Mary  did  not  hear 
it,  and  I  did  not  tell  her.  She  is  supremely  happy  just  now,  and  so  is  her  father, 
the  doctor.  Yes,  it  is  no  wonder  she  should  be  a  little  stilted— such  grand  people 
coming  to  call  and  invite  them  to  dinner,  and  all  the  folk  at  the  theatre  down-upon- 
knee  to  her— it  is  such  a  contrast  to  her  cottage  life  at  Three-Mile  Cross.  ' 

"But  "  I  said,  "  she  deserves  all  the  homage  that  can  be  rendered  her,-her 
talents  are  so  varied.  Those  stories  of  '  Our  Village '  have  been  fanned  by  the  pure 
breezes  of  '  sunny  Berkshire,'  and  are  inimitable  as  pictures  of  Enghsh  rural  lile  ; 
and  she  has  also  achieved  the  highest  walk  in  tragedy " 


444  MEMORIES. 

"For  a  woman,"  put  in  dear  Mrs.  Holland.  She  had  not  forgiven  our  great 
tragedian — then  in  the  zenith  of  his  popularity — for  his  ungallant  reserve. 

I  certainly  was  disappointed,  when  a  stout  little  lady,  tightened  up  in  a  shawl, 
rolled  into  the  parlour  of  Newman  Street,  and  Mrs.  Holland  announced  her  as 
Miss  Mitford;  her  short  petticoats  showing  wonderfully  stout  leather  boots,  her 
shawl  bundled  on,  and  a  little  black  coal-scuttle  bonnet— when  bonnets  were  expand- 
ing—added to  the  effect  of  her  natural  shortness  and  rotundity ;  but  her  manner 
was  that  of  a  cordial  country  gentlewoman;  the  pressure  of  her  "fat"  little  hands 
(for  she  extended  both)  was  warm ;  her  eyes,  both  soft  and  bright,  looked  kindly 
and  frankly  into  mine ;  and  her  pretty,  rosy  mouth  dimpled  with  smiles  that  were 
always  sweet  and  friendly.  At  first  I  did  not  think  her  at  all  "grand  or  stilted," 
though  she  declared  she  had  been  quite  spoilt — quite  ruined  since  she  came  to 
London,  with  all  the  fine  compliments  she  had  received ;  but  the  trial  was  yet  to 

come.     "Suppose — su-p-pose  Pdenzi  should  be "  and  she  shook  her  head.     Of 

course,  in  fall  chorus,  we  declared  that  impossible.  "  No  !  she  would  not  spend  an 
evening  with  us  until  after  the  first  night ;  if  the  play  went  ill,  or  even  coldly,  she 

would  run  away,  and  never  be  again  seen  or  heard  of;  if  it  succeeded "     She 

drew  her  rotund  person  to  its  full  height,  and  endeavoured  to  stretch  her  neck,  and 
the  expression  of  her  beaming  face  assumed  an  air  of  unmistakable  triumph.  She 
was  always  pleasant  to  look  at,  and  had  her  face  not  been  cast  in  so  broad — so 
"  outspread  " — a  mould,  she  would  have  been  handsome  ;  even  v?ith  that  disadvantage, 
if  her  figure  had  been  tall  enough  to  carry  her  head  with  dignity,  she  would  have 
been  so;  but  she  was  most  vexatiously  "dumpy."  Miss  Landon  "hit  off"  her 
appearance  when  she  whispered,  the  first  time  she  saw  her  (and  it  was  at  our 
house),  "  Sancho  Panza  in  petticoats  !  "  but  when  Miss  Mitford  spoke,  the  awkward 
effect  vanished, — her  pleasant  voice,  her  beaming  eyes  and  smiles,  made  you  forget 
the  wide  expanse  of  face ;  and  the  roly-poly  figure,  when  seated,  did  not  appear 
really  short.* 

*  The  portrait  engraved  at  the  head  of  this  Memory  is  from  a  painting  by  her  friend  Haydon,  In  one  of  her 
letters  to  Mrs.  Hall  she  thus  refers  to  it :— "  Now  to  the  portrait :  one  friend  of  mine  used  to  compare  it  to  a  cook- 
maid  of  sixty,  who  had  washed  her  dishes  and  sat  down  to  mend  her  stockings ;  another  to  Su'  John  Falstaff  in  the 
disguise  of  the  old  woman  of  Brentford ;  and  a  third  to  old  Bannister,  in  Moll  Flaggon.  I  have  not  myself  seen  it 
since  it  was  finished,  but  there  must  have  been  something  very  formidable  about  it  to  put  such  comparisons  iuto 
people's  heads.  I  dare  say  that  an  engraving  in  which  the  size  would,  of  course,  be  diminished,  and  the  colour  away, 
would  lose  a  gi'eat  part  of  the  odiousness  ;  but  I  must  entreat  and  conjure  that  the  di-ess— especially  the  head-dress 
—may  be  amended,  and  the  whole  be  made  as  much  like  a  lady  and  a  woman  as  the  resemblance  to  an  ugly  original 
will  permit."  This  portrait  is  now  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  Bennoch,  and  justifies  her  own  description  of  it ;  but  not- 
withstanding its  "  breadth,"  there  is  a  sweetness  of  expression  that  removes  it  far  away  from  anything  approaching 
the  common  or  the  vulgar.  There  were  many  other  remarks— complaints,  protests— concerning  the  portrait. 
Haydon  seems  to  have  been  proud  of  it,  and  jealous  of  the  artist,  Lucas,  who  painted  one  in  opposition  to  it— with 
which  everybody  was  content.  Haydon  lent  it  to  me  to  engrave,  and  I  published  it  to  accompany  a  brief  memoir  of 
herself :  she  wrote  for  the  New  Monthly  Magazine.  I  was  not  at  that  time  aware  of  the  bitterness  to  which  it  had 
given  rise,  breaking  for  a  time  the  friendship  that  had  existed  between  the  author  and  the  artist.  It  was  certainly  a 
striking,  though  by  no  means  a  fiattering,  likeness. 

In  another  letter  to  Mrs.  Hall,  reverting  to  the  subject,  she  says,—"  It  is  remarkable  that  the  only  real  likeness 
of  me  was  taken  three  months  ago  by  an  itmerant  cheap  porti-ait  painter,  who  requested  me  to  sit,  and  who  has 
failed  with  everybody  else  (above  two  hundred)  m  the  neighbourhood,  and  has  only  succeeded  in  one  portrait  of  me, 
another  which  he  took  subsequently  being  as  unUke  as  possible.  I  have  no  doubt  that  an  engraving  from  Mr. 
Haydon' s  picture  wiU  be  sufaciently  like,  provided  it  be  re -dressed,  and  made  as  pleasing  as  a  due  attention  to  the 
original,  being  ugly,  wiU  permit."  The  last  portrait  painted  of  Miss  Mitford  was  executed  a  few  years  before  her 
death,  by  her  friend  John  Lucas,  and  by  her  presented  to  Mr.  James  T.  Fields,  the  distinguished  publisher  of 
Boston,  U.S.A.  This  is  probably  the  most  favourable  of  all  the  portraits  of  her.  Age  and  infirmity  had  subdued 
the  vigour  and  diminished  the  rotundity  of  middle  life,  leaving  behind  the  shadow  of  her  former  self,  but  charac- 
terised by  a  delicate  refinement  of  expression— even  beautiful  to  look  upon. 


AIARY  RUSSELL   MLTFORD. 


445 


I  remember  asking  her  if  she  would  go  to  the  theatre  the  first  night  of  Rienzi. 
She  gave  a  dramatic  shudder,  and  answered,  "  No  :  the  strongest  man  could  not 
bear  that.'"  She,  however,  had  a  room  somewhere  in  the  theatre,  or  very  near 
it ;  her  friends  ran  to  her  repeatedly  during  the  evening  to  tell  her  how  the  play 
went,  and  she  often  rejoiced  m  the  fact  that  Haydon,  the  painter,  was  the  first  to 
bring  her  the  assurance  of  its  unmistakable  success.  It  achieved  a  triumph,  and 
deserved  it. 

Miss  Mitford,  like  Miss  Landon,  was,  in  conversation,  fond  of  producing  starthng 
effects  by  saying  something  extraordinary;  but  what  L.  E.  L.  would  cut  with  a 
diamond.  Miss  Mitford  would  "  come  down  on"  with  a  sledge-hammer.  I  remember 
her  saying  out  boldly  that  "  the  last  century  had  given  birth  only  to  two  men — 
Napoleon  Buonaparte  and  Benjamin  Eobert  Haydon  !  " 

She  kept  her  promise  to  us,  and  after  Pdenzi's  triumph,  spent  an  evening  at  our 
house, — "  the  observed  of  all  observers."  She  did  not,  however,  appear  to  advantage 
that  evening :  her  manner  was  constrained,  and  even  haughty.  She  got  up  tragedy 
looks,  which  did  not  harmonise  with  her  naturally  playful  expression.  She  seated 
herself  in  a  high  chair,  and  was  indignant  at  the  offer  of  a  footstool,  though  her  feet 
barely  touched  the  ground  ;  she  received  those  who  wished  to  be  introduced  to  her 
en  reine;  but  such  was  her  popularity  just  then,  that  all  were  gratified.  She  was 
most  unbecomingly  dressed  in  a  striped  satin  something,  neither  high  nor  low,  with 
very  short  sleeves,  for  her  arms  were  white  and  finely  formed ;  she  wore  a  large 
yellow  turban,  which  added  considerably  to  the  size  of  her  head.  She  had  evidently 
bought  the  hideous  thing  en  route,  and  put  it  on,  in  the  carriage,  as  she  drove  to  our 
house,  for  pinned  at  the  back  was  a  somewhat  large  card,  on  which  were  written,  in 
somewhat  large  letters,  these  astounding  words,  "Very  chaste — only  five  and  three- 
pence." I  had  observed  several  of  our  party,  passing  behind  the  chair,  whispering 
and  tittering,  and  soon  ascertained  the  cause.  Under  pretence  of  settling  her  turban, 
I  removed  the  obnoxious  notice;  and,  of  course,  she  never  knew  that  so  many  wags 
had  been  merry  at  her  cost. 

I  valued  Miss  Mitford  far  more  at  her  humble  dwelling,  Three-Mile  Cross,  than 
in  the  glare  of  London :  here  she  was  by  no  means  "  at  home ;  "  there  she  was 
entirely  so ;  and  though  our  visit  to  her  was  brief,  during  "  a  run  "  through  Berk- 
shire to  Bristol,  I  had  opportunities  of  properly  estimating  her  among  the  scenes  she 
has  made  famous.  It  was  very  pleasant  to  make  acquaintance  with  her  and  her  grey- 
hound Mayflower,  the  familiar  friend  of  all  who  love  her  writings;  to  walk  in 
her  tiny  garden ;  and  to  stroll  through  the  green  lanes  she  has  lauded  so  often  and 
so  much. 

She  was  a  very  Flora  among  her  flowers  ;  she  really  loved  them,  and  enjoyed 
them  as  flowers  are  not  always  enjoyed  ;  she  treated  them  with  a  loving  tenderness, 
not  because  they  were  the  "new  kinds,"  but  because  they  were  old,  dear  friends. 
One  rose-tree  I  recall  now— a  standard,  quite  six  feet  high,  I  think— certainly  much 
taller  than  herself,  for  she  stood  under  it. 

She  was  deeply  read  in  the  old  poets,  and  it  was  a  rich  treat  to  hear  her  talk 
and  quote  from  them,  fiUing  her  small  sitting-room  with  their  richest  gems.     I  never 


saw  her  after  she  left  Three-Mile  Cross  ;  never  at  Swallowfield  (although  I  did  visit 
the  place  after  her  death),  where,  if  the  neighbouring  cottagers  speak  truth,  she  must 
have  grown  strangely  eccentric.  They  say  she  would  not  leave  her  house  and 
garden  in  the  daytime,  but  that  at  night  she  would  put  on  strong  boots,  and,  staff  in 
hand,  take  long  and  lonely  walks.  That  must  have  been  some  time  before  her  depar- 
ture from  earth,  for,  of  late,  her  unfailing  friend,  Mr.  Bennoch,  tells  us  she  became 
very  feeble  ;  indeed,  in  some  of  her  later  notes  to  me,  she  complained  of  increasing 
weakness. 

So  far  go  the  "  Memories  "  of  Mrs.  Hall. 

In  Miss  Mitford's  "  Recollections  of  a  Literary  Life,"  a  work  in  three  volumes, 
singularly  deficient  of  interest,  and  almost  entirely  free  from  personal  recollec- 
tions of  any  kind,  she  speaks  of  her  grief  at  leaving  the  cottage  that  for  thirty 
years  had  been  her  shelter.  But  "  in  truth,"  she  adds,  "  it  was  leaving  me  :  "  the 
foundations  were  damp  and  rotten,  the  rain  came  dripping  through  the  roof,  and,  in 
fact,  "  it  was  crumbling  about  us."  She  had  "  associations  with  the  old  walls  "  that 
endeared  them  to  her:  there  she  had  "toiled  and  striven,"  and  tasted  deeply  of 
anxiety,  of  fear,  and  of  hope.  There,  in  that  poor  and  dull  home,  friends  many  and 
kind — "  strangers  also,  whose  mere  names  were  an  honour"- — had  come  to  tender  to 
her  their  homage.  There  Haydon  had  "  talked  better  pictures  than  he  painted." 
Talfourd  had  to  that  home  "  brought  the  delightful  gaiety  of  his  brilliant  youth ;  " 
Amelia  Opie,  Jane  Porter,  the  translator  Gary,  and  a  host  of  others,  had  been  her 
guests — in  that  ill-furnished  parlour,  and  in  that  natural,  yet  ungraced,  garden. 

It  is  pleasant  to  recall  some  of  them  to  memory. 

She  did  not  go  far:  from  Three-Mile  Cross  to  SwalloAvfield  was  but  a  walk; 
she  took  that  walk  one  autumn  evening,  and  in  her  new  dwelling  she  lived  thence- 
forward and  died. 

She  calls  Three-Mile  Cross  "the  prettiest  of  villages,"  and  her  cottage  "the 
snuggest  and  cosiest  of  all  snug  cabins."  *  Hers  must  have  been  that  continual  feast, 
a  contented  mind,  to  have  been  so  easily  satisfied ;  for  the  village  is  one  of  the  least 
attractive  in  broad  England,  and  the  cottage  one  of  the  least  pretty  and  picturesque 
that  could  be  found  from  John  o'Groat's  to  the  Land's  End. 

"  Sunny  Berkshire  "  may  be  seen  to  infinitely  greater  advantage  a  few 
miles  off". 

Again  I  draw  on  the  memory  of  Mrs.  Hall. 

Some  time  after  Mary  Russell  Mitford  passed  away  from  earth,  finding  ourselves 
in  her  pleasant  county,  "  sunny  Berkshire,"  we  made  a  detour  to  visit  once  more  her 

*  In  1820,  when  she  removed  from  her  comparatively  grand  home  to  the  humble  cotta^-e  at  Three-MilP  Prnss, 
she  thus  describes  it :— "  It  consists  of  a  series  of  closets,  the  largest  of  which  may  be  about  eight  feet  snuare  whiVh 
they  caU  parloui's  and  kitchens  and  pantnes  ;  some  of  them  minus  a  corner,  which  has  been  innaturaUv  filched  thv 
a  chimney;  others  deficient  m  half  a  side,  which  has  been  truncated  by  the  shelving  roof  Behind  is  n  cT^ 
about  the  size  of  a  good  drawing-room,  with  an  arbour  which  is  a  complete  sentry-box  of  wivet  on  miP  tl^^o'^' 
pubUc-house,  on  the  other  a  viUage  shop,  and  right  opposite  a  cobbler  s  stall."  Yet  in  this  poor  khode^h^A^^n 
lor  upwards  of  twenty  years.    Truly  the  light  that  surrounded  her  must  have  been  all  from  witnin  uweic 


MARY  RUSSELL   MITFORD.  44; 

cottage  at  Three-Mile  Cross,  and  also  tha,t  at  Swallowfield.  We  fancied  we  remem- 
bered the  roads,  and  even  the  trees.  It  was  a  day  brimful  of  air  and  sunshine,— 
no  dust,  no  rain, — every  bird  in  song,  every  leaf  at  maturity,  every  streamlet 
musical, — a  jewel  of  a  day  !  The  rough-coated  elms  stood  boldly  and  bluntly  out 
from  the  velvet  hedgerows  ;  we  were  nearing  the  village ;  there  were  the  signs  of 
the  over-many  public-houses,  so  quaint  and  un-London-like — "  The  Four  Horse- 
shoes," "  The  Fox  and  Horn,"  "  The  George  and  the  Dragon  ;  "  there  were  children 
clapping  their  hands,  and  blooming  "like  roses;"  the  jobbing  gardener  with  his 
rake,  his  garland  of  "  bass,"  and  his  bundle  of  shreds — "  blue,  black,  and  red ;  "  the 
muscular  village  blacksmith ;  the  white-faced  shoemaker ;  the  ragged,  rosy,  saucy 
boys;  the  fair,  delicate,  lily-of-the-valley-like  maidens — descendants  of  those  who 
were  boys  and  girls  when  "  Our  Village  "  was  written.  We  arrived,  after  dehcious 
loiterings,  at  the  quaint  village  "  Three-Mile  X,"  as  it  is  described  by  itself  on  a  wall 
to  the  right.  It  is  a  long,  lean,  straggling  hamlet  of  twenty  houses  and  a  half — the 
"  half"  being  the  shoemaker's  shop,  from  which,  in  Miss  Mitford's  time,  "  an  earth- 
quake would  hardly  have  stirred  the  souter."  The  village  shop  was  there,  still 
"Bromley's  shop,"  just  as  it  was  in  her  day,  except  that  the  master  and  mistress 
were  "elderly,"  and  the  children  not  young;  but  children  still  flourished  round 
iC/(CTi»  keeping  the  picture  "fresh."  The  master  of  the  shop,  a  handsome  old  man, 
was  pleased  to  talk  of  Miss  Mitford  and  "  the  doctor,"  and  of  her  good-nature  and 
her  oddities.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "  that  was  her  house,  the  very  next  door:  every  one 
called  it  small  and  ugly  and  inconvenient ;  but  she  liked  it — she  made  herself  and 
everybody  else  happy  in  it.  He  did  not  know  what  visitors  expected  the  house  to 
be;  he  could  repeat  every  word  she  had  written  on't."  "A  cottage!  No;  a 
miniature  house,  with  many  additions,  little  odds  and  ends  of  places,  pantries,  and 
what  not ;  a  little  bricked  court  before  the  one  half,  and  a  little  flower-yard  before 
the  other ;  the  walls  old  and  weather-stained,  covered  with  hollyhocks,  roses,  honey- 
suckles, and  a  great  apricot-tree." 

Out  upon  Time  !  The  hollyhocks,  the  honeysuckles,  the  roses,  even  the  great 
apricot-tree,  were  dead  or  gone ;  the  flowers,  her  dearly-loved  flowers,  had  all 
perished ;  the  trim,  neat  garden  was  a  mass  of  tangled  weeds ;  every  tree  in  the 
garden  gone,  except  the  old  bay  and  the  "  fairy  rose." 

The  house — a  body  without  a  soul — was  much  as  she  left  it,  "an  assemblage  of 
closets,"  which  "  our  landlord,"  she  said,  "  has  the  assurance  to  call  rooms."  "  That 
house,"  to  quote  her  own  cheerful  words,  "  was  built  on  purpose  to  show  in  what  an 
exceedingly  small  compass  comfort  may  be  packed."  Then,  tenantless  and  without 
furniture,  it  was  damp  and  dreary ;  we  felt  the  impossibihty  of  imparting  to  such  a 
dwelling  anything  approaching  the  picturesque  of  cottage  life,*  and  felt  far  more  than 
ever  the  most  intense  admiration  and  respect  for  the  well-born  and  once  wealthy  lady 
who  brought  within  those  "  old  and  weather-stained  walls  "  an  atmosphere  of  happiness 
— an  appreciation  of  all  that  is  true  and  beautiful  in  nature.     Who  ever  heard  her 

*  Since  this  visit,  some  ten  years  ago,  the  "  cottage  "  has  been  still  more  "  transmogrified  :  "it  is  now  an  ugly- 
stuccoed  dwelling,  which  the  author  of  "  Our  ViUage  "  would  not  recognise,  or,  if  she  did,  would  be  ashamed  01. 
Our  picture  represents  it  as  it  was  during  Miss  Mitford's  occupancy. 


448 


MEMORIES. 


murmur  at  changed  fortunes  ?  When  obliged  to  leave  "  the  home  of  eighteen  years," 
"  surrounded  by  fine  oaks  and  elms,  and  tall,  massy  plantations,  shaded  down  into  a 
beautiful  lawn  by  wild,  overgrown  shrubs,"  she  confesses,  indeed,  in  her  own  playful 
way,  it  almost  broke  her  heart  to  leave  it.  "I  have  pitied,"  she  writes,  "  cabbage- 
plants  and  celery,  and  all  transplantable  things,  ever  since,  though,  in  common  with 
them  and  other  vegetables,  the  first  agony  of  transportation  being  over,  I  have  taken 
such  firm  and  tenacious  root  of  my  new  soil  that  I  would  not  for  the  world  be  pulled 
up  again,  even  to  be  restored  to  the  beloved  ground."  What  was  this — philosophy  or 
heroism  ?  or  the  perfection  of  that  sweet,  plastic  nature  which  receives  and  retains 


THE   CEA-VE   OF   JIAIU    KLSbELL  MllFORD. 


and  fructifies  all  happy  impressions — which  opens  to,  and  cherishes,  all  natural 
enjoyments,  and  adapts  itself  to  circumstances  with  the  true  spirit  of  the  practical 
piety  that  bends  to  the  blast,  and  sees  sunshine  bright  and  enduring  beyond  the 
blackest  cloud  ? 

Swallowfield  is  a  pleasant  wayside  cottage,  much  more  commodious  than  Three- 
Mile  Cross  could  ever  have  been  ;  it  is  seated  on  a  triangular  plot  of  ground,  skirted 
by  roads  overshadowed  by  superb  trees  ;  it  is  the  beau  ideal  of  a  residence  for  those 
-who  love  the  country  ;  but  we  think  Miss  Mitford  must  have  missed  the  villao-e, 
missed  the  children,  missed  the  homely  life  interests  that  clung  round  her  heart  at 


MARY  RUSSELL   MITFORD.  449 

Three-Mile  Cross.  The  aged  tree  liad  been  transplanted,  and  superior  as  this  cottage 
is  in  extent,  in  beauty,  in  comfort,  in  the  richness  of  its  close  scenery,  we  believe 
the  roots  never  struck  far  below  the  surface  ;  the  "  dear  father  "  never  sat  under 
that  mantel- shelf,  "  pretty  May  "  never  stretched  before  that  fire.  To  the  old,  these 
delicious  home-memories  are  more  "  life  "  than  the  actual  life  in  which  others  exist  : 
the  eye  may  be  closed  and  the  lip  silent,  but  the  fast,  the  past  is  with  the  old,  ever 
fresh  and  young  as  a  blind  man's  bride. 

It  is  gratifying  to  know  that  when  life  was  drawing  towards  a  close,  the  world 
was  "  shut  out"  from  her  heart,  except  when  it  opened  to  beloved  friends,  and  to 
the  high  and  holy  hope  that  is  ever  the  comfort  and  the  consolation  of  the  Christian. 
She  was  not  without  suffering — much  suffering,  indeed — but  her  mind  was  clear  and 
fresh  and  young  to  the  last. 

There  has  been  time,  since  her  death,  to  place  her  in  the  position  she  will  occupy 
in  British  literature  :  it  is  a  high  one,  though  not  of  the  highest ;  her  works  have 
gone  out  of  public  favour  ;  her  novel  was  never  worth  much ;  her  tragedies  were 
bat  second  rate  at  best,  and  took  no  hold  of  the  stage  ;  her  fame  rests — mainly,  if 
not  exclusively — on  her  sketches  of  village  character,  incident,  and  scenery  ;  and 
these  win  delight  readers  so  long  as  Nature  can  charm. 

On  the  7th  of  January,  1855,  she  thus  wrote — almost  her  last  letter  : — 

"  It  has  pleased  Providence  to  preserve  to  me  my  calmness  of  mind,  clearness  of  intellect,  and 
also  my  power  of  reading  by  day  and  by  night ;  and,  which,  is  still  more,  my  love  of  poetry  and 
literature,  my  cheerfulness,  and  my  enjoyment  of  little  things." 

She  sleeps  in  one  of  the  prettiest  of  old  village  churchyards,  where  the  lads  and 
lasses  pass,  every  Sabbath-day,  beside  her  grave — fit  resting-place  of  one  who 
delighted  in  picturing 

"  The  hmable  loves  and  simple  joys  " 

of  the  Sylvias  and  Corydons  that  still  gather  round  an  English  homestead. 

Pleasant  is  the  memory,  because  happy  was  the  life,  kindly  the  nature,  and 
genial  the  heart,  of  Mary  Russell  Mitford.  She  had  her  trials,  and  she  bore  them 
well;  trusting  and  faithful,  and  ever  true  to  the  jVafwe  she  loved ;  sending  forth 
from  her  poor  cottage  at  Three-Mile  Cross — from  its  leaden  casement  and  narrow 
door — floods  of  light  and  sunshine  that  have  cheered  and  brightened  the  uttermost 
parts  of  earth. 


G    O 


UGO  FOSCOLO. 

HAVE  reserved  for  one  of  the  latest  of  my  "  Memories  "  that  which 
is  among  the  very  earliest  of  them— a  Memory  of  Ugo  Foscolo. 

In  the  year  1823,  when  I  was  striving  to  make  my  way  in  London, 
much  after  the  manner  I  have  described  when  writing  of  George 
Crabbe  and  Gerald  Griffin— sternly  resolved  to  maintain  the  only 
"property"  I  inherited— the  name  and  rank  of  a  gentleman ;  equally 
determined  to  achieve  independence,  and,  if  possible,  distinction,  by 
my  own  unaided  efforts,  and 

"  no  revenue  h.ad 
But  my  good  spirits," 

it  was  intimated  to  me  that  I  could,  if  I  liked,  become  the  secretary  of 
the  Italian  poet,  Ugo  Foscolo,  who  stood  in  need  of  such  assistance  as  I  might 
render  him,  I  accepted  the  "  appointment  " — if  so  it  may  be  called,  which  implied 
little  work  and  no  pay;  for  so  it  was,  during  the  six  or  eight  months  I  was 
associated  with  him.  He  had  himself  nothing  to  do  ;  and  my  services  consisted 
principally  in  making  copies  of  letters,  and  transcribing  and  converting  into  "better 
English  "  some  articles  he  was  engaged  in  writing,  with  a  view  to  publication  in  the 
Quarterly  Review  and  the  New  MontJihj  Magazine. 

His  manuscripts  were  partly  in  English,  partly  in  French,  and  partly  in  Italian. 
His  caligraphy  was  of  the  worst  possible  order,  and  it  was  no  easy  task  to  bring 
them  together,  so  as  to  make  them  readable  by  the  printer,  and  available  for  the 
publisher. 

His  residence  was  at  South  Bank,  Kegent's  Park.  The  district  north  of  St. 
John's  Wood  was  not  then  the  huge  "  city  "  it  is  now ;  it  was  quite  in  the  country, 
and  there  were  rural  walks  in  all  directions  about  the  locality. 

The  cottage  in  which  Foscolo  placed  me  was  that  in  which  he  had  resided  before 
he  built  "  Digamma  Cottage  "* — a  small  semi-detached  cottage  a  few  doors  off. 

Digamma  Cottage  was  not  at  that  time  quite  finished  ;  the  furniture  was  not  all 
"in-"  the  garden,  that  sloped  down  to  the  canal,  was  not  entirely  planted ;  but 
much  of  the  arrangement  of  taste  was  there,  with  many  of  the  appliances  of  wealth. 
It  was  a  costly  erection,  and  expensive  was  all  its  garniture.  Everything,  however, 
was   done  upon  credit.     When   Foscolo  began  to  build,  I  understood  he  had  not  a 


*  He  so  christened  Ms  cottage  as  a  consequence  of  what  he  considered  his  triumph  in  the  warm  discussion  that 
had  taken  place  among  men  of  letters  conceming  the  Greek  Digamma.  Foscolo  had  written  an  article  on  the  subject 
for  the  Quarterly  Eevuiti. 


UGO  FOSCOLO. 


451 


hundred  pounds  of  his  own ;  and  he  could  not  have  had  much  more  at  any  time 
during  his  occupancy.  The  inevitable  consequence  was  that  in  due  time  bills  were 
delivered  ;  there  were  no  means  to  meet  them ;  and  although  a  course  of  lectures 
that  were  productive,  and  a  private  subscription  among  his  friends,  staved  off  for  a 
time  his  embarrassments,  and  enabled  him  to  meet  the  more  pressing  claims,  he  soon 
became  involved  in  difficulties  from  which  extrication  was  impossible. 

WhUe  he  was  in  that  state  I  found  him. 

It  is  a  long,  long  vista  through  which  I  look  back — more  than  half  a  century.  I 
do  so  with  earnest  thankfulness  to  God,  who  preserved  me  from  the  imminent  peril  to 
which  I  was  exposed  at  my  entrance  into  life.  I  feel  a  shudder  now  ;  for  I  see  the 
death-pit  at  the  threshold,  as  the  door  opens  to  give  me  entrance !  It  was  a  most 
unhealthy  atmosphere  to  which  I  was  subjected.  Foscolo  made  no  secret  of  being 
an  infidel.  He  had  no  principle  to  guide  him  that  might  have  worked  in  the  stead 
of  religious  sentiment.  He  coveted  and  enjoyed  the  luxuries  of  an  Epicurean;  and 
his  household  consisted  of  five  female  servants — two  of  whom  were  sisters — one  of 
them  being  his  housekeeper ;  and  all  of  them  were  handsome.  My  peril  was 
augmented  by  the  fact  that  I  had  intense  admiration  for  his  genius,  and  was 
enthusiastically  devoted  to  him — so  devoted  that  I  think  it  would  have  been 
impossible  for  me  to  have  refused  to  do  any  work  of  any  kind  he  had  summoned 
me  to  do. 

Providence  at  that  perilous  moment  led  me  to  know  her  who,  a  year  afterwards, 
became  my  wife — and  I  was  saved  ! 

Our  evenings  were  generally  spent  in  playing  chess,  but  I  soon  found  it  was  a 
dangerous  game;  if  he  were  beaten  he  would  throw  the  men  about,  and  sometimes 
tear  his  long  straggling  hair,  so  as  to  leave  much  of  it  in  his  hands ;  and  I  was  glad 
to  retire  to  my  lonely  home,  occasionally  to  be  sent  for,  and  asked  to  accept  an 
apology — which,  of  course,  I  always  did. 

At  least  once  a  week  he  succeeded  in  persuading  me  that  he  intended  to  commit 
suicide  before  the  morning.  On  one  occasion,  I  remember,  I  paced  up  and  down 
the  road  all  night,  fully  convinced  that  I  should  be  called  in  to  see  him  dead  r  he 
had  shown  me  a  small  dagger,  which  he  kept  at  his  bedside,  and  had  told  me  he 
meant  to  kill  himself  with  that,  when  midnight  had  passed.  I  ran  off  as  fast  as  I 
could  to  communicate  the  appalling  fact  to  John  Cam  Hobhouse,  one  of  his  friends. 
I  disturbed  him  from  a  party  to  entreat  his  interference,  and  was  horrified  when  he 
patted  me  on  the  shoulder  and  said,  "  My  young  friend,  when  you  know  Foscolo  as 
well  as  I  do,  you  will  have  as  little  faith  in  him  as  I  have."  I  returned  to  keep 
watch  beside  his  door,  and  when  the  house  was  astir,  I  entered— to  hear  the  poet 
shouting  for  his  breakfast  !  He  greeted  me  without  a  thought  to  my  agony  of  the 
night.  Gradually  the  mist  in  which  he  had  enveloped  me  was  dispelled.  I  left  his 
neighbourhood,  and  saw  no  more  of  the  man  of  vast  intellectual  power,  whose  life 
was  a  waste— if  considered  with  reference  to  what  he  might  have  been  and  might 
have  done. 

He  lacked  the  rectitude  without  which,  after  all,  enduring  fame  is  obtained  but 
rarely.     Of  all  the  productions  of  his  pen,  the  "  Lettere  di  Jacobo  Ortis  "  is  the 

G  G  2 


452  ■  MEMORIES. 

only  one  known  to  this  generation,  and  that  is  nearly  forgotten  except  in  Italy.* 
He  holds  rank,  however,  among  the  foremost  of  its  poets  ;  and  Garibaldi  is  not  the 
only  one  of  his  countrymen  who  has  laid  immorteh  in  profound  homage  on  his  grave 
in  the  churchyard  at  Chiswick. 

He  was  born  in  1776,  on  board  a  frigate  of  the  Venetian  Republic,  near  Zante, 
the  island  of  which  his  father  was  j)roveditoi-e,  or  governor,  and  was  educated  at 
Padua.  In  1797,  a  tragedy  by  him,  Tieste,  was  performed  at  the  theatre  of  St. 
Angelo,  from  which  Alfieri,  then  living,  augured  his  after  fame.  In  that  year  Buona- 
parte delivered  up  Venice  to  Austria  ;  and  Foscolo,  in  disgust,  entered  the  Italian 
army — not  for  any  long  time,  however.  He  was  a  wanderer  in  many  states,  pub- 
lishing here  and  there  ;  and  in  1816  came  to  England,  where  he  was  received  with 
open  arms,  as  an  exiled  patriot  (which  he  undoubtedly  was),  by  the  Liberals  of  the 
time,  Brougham,  Mackintosh,  Lansdowne,  Russell,  Hallam,  Hobhouse,  and  others, 
whom  he  soon  "  wore  out ;  "  living  much  as  I  have  described  until  1827,  when  he 
died — on  the  10th  of  December  of  that  year — at  Hammersmith,  and  was  buried  in 
the  churchyard  at  Chiswick.     A  headstone  there  records  his  name. 

It  is  certain  that  he  fully  valued  the  house  he  had  built  and  adorned ;  elegancies 
were  to  him  luxuries  ;  he  was  no  epicure  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  term  ;  of  wine 
he  partook  sparingly ;  but  his  rooms  were  crowded  with  refinements  of  art,  and  in 
every  corner  or  convenient  space  there  was  the  copy  of  an  antique  statue  :  his  house 
was,  indeed,  his  palace.  He  wrote  in  one  of  the  very  few  letters  of  which  I  preserved 
copies,  "  I  can  easily  undergo  all  privations ;  but  my  dwelling  is  always  my  work- 
shop, and  often  my  prison,  and  ought  not  to  distress  me  with  the  appearance  of 
misery,  and  I  confess,  in  this  respect,  I  cannot  be  acquitted  of  extravagance." 

In  another  letter,  writing  of  the  costliness  of  his  furniture,  he  said,  "  They 
encompass  me  with  an  air  of  respectability,  and  they  give  me  the  illusion  of  not 
having  fallen  into  the  lowest  ciAumstances.  I  must  also  declare  that  I  will  die  like 
a  gentleman,  on  a  clean  bed,  surrounded  by  the  Venuses,  Apollos,  and  the  Graces, 
and  the  busts  of  great  men  ;  nay,  even  among  flowers,  and,  if  possible,  while  music 
is  breathing  around  me.  Far  from  courting  the  sympathy  of  posterity,  I  will  never 
give  mankind  the  gratification  of  ejaculatmg  preposterous  sighs  because  I  died  in  a 
hospital  like  Camoens,  or  like  Tasso;  and  since  I  must  be  buried  in  your  country, 
I  am  happy  in  having  got,  for  the  remainder  of  my  life,  a  cottage,  independent  of 
neighbours,  surrounded  by  flowering  shrubs  ;  and  when  I  can  freely  dispose  of  a 
hundred  pounds,  I  will  build  a  small  dwelling  to  receive  my  corpse  also,  under  a 
beautiful  Oriental  plane-tree,  which  I  mean  to  plant  next  November,!  and'  cultivate 
con  amore  to  the  last  year  of  my  existence.  So  far  I  am,  indeed,  an  epicure  ;  but  in 
all  other  things  I  am  the  most  moderate  of  men.  I  might  vie  with  Pythagoras  for 
sobriety,  and  even  with  great  Scipio  for  continence."! 


*  l^^l'-^^^^T  ^  Jacobo  Ortis"  is  a  wild  tale  of  passion,  after  the  maimer  of  "The  Soriows  of  Werter  " 
Digamma'cottege'         ^"  ^^  ^      '^    "  ^"'  ^^^^^^^^^^S  a  few  yea.-s  ago,  when  the  ^7-^.  J.  L^el'Uved  in 

t  Many  years  ago  (in  the  year  1830,  I  believe),  I  auoted  these  nnssiap-ps  in  »  nr.rr,Tr,„r„-„„4--      t  ^    ,.- 

Charles  Macfarlane,  which  he  printed  in  his  "Tiome^ne^otm^ofy^uZ'^    Thtve  be^Hnthlf  /  ^^^^  *°  ¥^- 
irolume,  which  I  much  regret,  as  there  was  in  it  other  matter  I  cf S  now  recail  to  memory.  '  *°  P'°'^'  ^^^ 


UGO  FOSCOLO.  453 


Ah  !  his  expectations  were  delusions  ;  his  hopes  were  dreams.  Within  a  year 
or  so  after  his  calculations  to  die  among  the  blandishments  of  life,  he  was  hiding 
from  a  "  bailiff  hunt ;  "  all  his  household  gods  had  been  seized,  sold,  and  scattered  ; 
he  had  a  poor  shelter  in  an  obscure  lodging  at  Hammersmith,  enduring  penury,  and 
barely  escaping  obloquy ;  and  one  of  his  creditors  obtained  possession  of  the 
"  dwelling,"  and  the  "plane-tree"  that  was  to  shadow  his  body  when  dead.  He 
was  not  quite  deserted  by  his  "  friends  ;  "  they  relieved  him  from  absolute  want — 
that  was  all;  they  buried — at  the  comparatively  early  age  of  fifty,  him  who,  be 
his  faults  what  they  may,  will  be  classed  high  among  the  Poets  of  Italy  and  of  the 
World. 

I  recall  him  now  as,  with  a  vehemence  almost  superhuman,  he  denounced  the 
Corsican,  quoting  the  brave  and  terribly  bitter  words  he  used  when  face  to  face  with 
the  conqueror  of  Italy — almost  of  the  world.  I  wish  I  could  recollect  them,  for 
they  were  grand.     No  doubt  they  may  be  found  somewhere. 

My  recollection  of  him  is  very  vivid.  He  was  somewhat  above  the  middle  size, 
thin,  almost  attenuated,  but  wiry,  active,  and  exceedingly  energetic,  apparently 
unable  to  control  a  naturally  irritable  temper  by  any  influence  of  reason.  His  head 
was  one  of  the  finest,  in  the  intellectual  organs,  I  have  ever  seen  ;  a  forehead  as 
broad  and  massive  as  that  of  Michael  Angelo,  whom,  indeed,  he  somewhat  resembled, 
even  to  a  slightly-depressed  nose ;  his  eyes  were  grey,  deep-set,  and  quick ;  shaggy 
eyebrows  overhung  them ;  he  wore  a  beard ;  his  mouth  was  large  and  sensual,  and 
its  expression  was  not  concealed  by  a  moustache  ;  his  light  hair  was  thin  and  long 
(it  must  have  been  originally  red) ;  he  was  continually  tearing  it  when  under  the 
effects  of  any  sudden  excitement.    In  one  of  his  sonnets  he  thus  pictured  himself : — 

"  A  furrowed  brow,  intent  and  deep -sunk  eyes, 

Thin  hair,  lean  cheeks,  and  mind  and  aspect  bold ; 
The  proud,  quick  lip  where  seldom  smiles  arise ; 

Bent  head  and  well -formed  neck  ;  breast  rough  and  cold ; 
Limbs  well  composed ;  simple  in  dress,  yet  choice  ; 

Swift  or  to  move,  act,  think,  or  thought  unfold." 

He  had  all  the  outer  characteristics  usually  associated  with  ideas  of  lofty  genius, 
but  a  mind  ill  regulated,  and  not  directed  by  any  thought  or  care  to  the  exigencies  or 
the  duties  of  life — of  life  here  as  a  preparation  for  life  hereafter  ;  in  that,  indeed, 
most  unhappily,  he  did  not  believe ;  he  had  no  superintending,  or  directing,  or 
influencing  Faith  of  any  kind  ;  and  the  Teachers  of  all  Faiths  were  to  him  abomi- 
nations. 

His  countryman  and  friend.  Count  Pecchio,  said  that  on  his  death-bed  he  "  spoke 
of  the  great  mystery  of  the  soul  :"  may  we  not  hope  that  as  the  shadow  drew  near, 
and  he  knew  that  the  "  great  mystery  "  would  soon  be  made  clear,  there  broke  in 
upon  him  a  light  he  had  so  long  wilfully  shut  out,  and  that  a  repentant  prayer 
ascended  to  the  Redeemer  he  had  all  his  life  denied  ;  that, 

"  Between  the  saddls  and  the  ground. 
He  mercy  sought  and  mercy  found  ! " 


CHAELES    DICKENS. 

iHARLES  DICKENS  was  born  at  Portsmouth  on  the  7th  of 
February,  1812,  and  died  suddenly,  at  Gad's  Hill,  on  the 
9th  of  June,  1870. 

What   a  full,  brilliant,  useful  life  it  was — that  which 

endured  no  longer  here — on  earth — than  fifty-eight  years  ! 

What  a  prodigious  bequest  he  has  left ;  what  a  munificent 

gift,  not  to  his  country  alone,  but  to  all  the  peoples  of  the 

world,  "making  mankind  his  debtor  to  the  end  of  time!" 

I  have  applied  these  words  to  other  great  benefactors  of 

the  epoch ;  to  none  with  greater  force  or  truth  than   to  this  great  master 

and  guide  of  the  hearts  and  minds  of  millions. 

So  it  is  now,  and  so  it  will  be  for  ever ! 

My  Memory  of  Charles  Dickens  may  be  compressed  into  brief  space  ; 
he  has   received  a  hundred  tributes,  more   eloquent,  more  emphatic,  and 
more  powerful  than  any  I  might  write  ;    and  if  I   could  devote  sufficient 
space  to  the  subject,  I  should  fill  it  by  extracting  passages,  in  memoriam,  from  the 
testimonials  laid  by  his  contemporaries  upon  his  grave.     And  that  grave  is  in  West- 
minster Abbey ! 

"  Ne'er  to  those  dwellings  where  the  mighty  rest, 
Since  their  foundations  came  a  nobler  guest" 


than  he  who,  on  the  14th  day  of  June,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  eighteen  hundred  and 
seventy,  was  laid  among  illustrious  compeers — those  who  have  been  famous  in 
war,  and  those  who  have  obtained  holier  renown  in  the  victories  of  peace. 

His  funeral  was  not  like  that  of  Campbell,  or,  later,  that  of  Macaulay ;  no  crowd 
of  titled  pall-bearers  trod  the  pavement  on  that  gloomy  day ;  but  there  were  millions 
who  grieved  for  the  "  going  out  "  of  one  of  the  brightest  lights  of  the  age  ;  and  if 
the  burial  had  been  public,  and  not  private,  the  Abbey  could  not  have  contained 
the  number  of  mourners  who  would  have  sobbed  among  its  venerable  and  time- 
honoured  aisles. 

It  is  grand  recompense  for  a  life  of  labour — the  consciousness  that  a  debt  has 
been  contracted,  and  is  paid,  not  only  willingly,  but  gladly,  by,  it  may  be,  the  half 
of  humankind.  They  are  in  grievous  error  who  fancy  that  such  consciousness  can 
exist  only  so  long  as  the  lungs  give  breath  :  the  "  cloud  of  witnesses  "  by  which 
we  are  "encompassed"  will  testify  of  us — for  good  or  for  evil — long  after  "this 


CHARLES  DICKENS.  455 


corruption  shall  have  put  on  incorruption,  and  this  mortal  shall  have  put  on 
immortality." 

And  so  the  body  of  Charles  Dickens  was  placed  in  Westminster  Abbey,  among 
the  illustrious  dead.  He  had  not  only  not  sought  that  "  honour,"  but  indirectly  pro- 
tested against  it,  for  these  words  were  in  his  last  Will  and  Testament : — 

"  I  emphatically  direct  that  I  he  huried  in  an  inexpensive,  unostentatious,  and  strictly  private 
manner,  that  no  puhlic  announcement  be  made  of  the  time  or  place  of  my  hurial,  that  at  the 
utmost  not  more  than  three  plain  mourning  coaches  be  employed,  and  that  those  who  attend  my 
funeral  wear  no  scarf,  cloak,  black  bow,  long  hatband,  or  other  such  revolting  absurdity.  I  direct 
that  my  name  be  inscribed  in  plain  English  letters  on  my  tomb,  without  the  addition  of  '  Mr.'  or 
'  Esquire.'  I  conjure  my  friends  on  no  account  to  make  me  the  subject  of  any  monument, 
memorial,  or  testimonial  whatever." 

It  was  a  good  example  he  thus  set  to  society.  May  it  be  followed  universally,  so 
that  the  loathsome  display  of  "  trappings  "  at  a  funeral  may  be  considered  not  com- 
pliments, but  insults,  to  brother  or  sister  "  removed."     He  wrote  further — 

"  I  rest  my  claims  to  the  remembrance  of  my  country  upon  my  published  works,  and  to  the 
remembrance  of  my  fi lends  upon  their  experience  of  me." 

He  might,  as  he  did,  safely  confide  in  both ;  yet  it  was  well  done  to  show  the 
world  that  his  "  friends  "  and  his  "  country  "  estimated  him  more  highly  than  he 
did  himself;  that  the  loftiest  reward  they  could  bestow  upon  him  was  accorded 
after  his  death  ;  and  I  cannot  doubt  that  his  spirit  was  comforted  by  such  acknow- 
ledgment of  the  good  he  had  done— the  blessings  his  works  had  conferred  upon 
mankind. 

"  There  iis  no  death  :  what  seems  so  is  transition  : 
This  life  of  mortal  breath 
Is  but  a  suburb  of  the  life  Elysian, 
Whose  portal  we  call  Death ! " 

They  are  poor  reasoners  concerning  "the  hereafter"  who  reject  the  belief  that 
happiness  as  well  as  remorse  is  the  inheritance  of  those  whose  works  do  follow  them 
when  they  leave  earth. 

It  may  be  questioned  whether  the  prayer  of  the  Church  liturgy  to  be  delivered 
from  "  sudden  death"  is  a  wise  prayer;  but,  at  all  events,  Dickens  had  his  warn- 
ings ;  he  had  been  prepared  for  the  change  that  he  knew  might  at  any  hour  come. 
He  was  ready — we  may  firmly  believe.  The  words  that  have  been  uttered  over  his 
grave  have  never  been  applied  with  more  solemn  truth.  Happy  and  to  be  envied 
are  they  who,  when  they  "rest  from  labour,"  enter  into  the  joy  of  their  Lord,  and 
receive  the  greeting,  "  Well  done,  good  and  faithful  servant  !  " 

He  died  in  harness — when  his  fame  was  at  its  zenith — before  age  had  weakened 
power;  and  the  "  sudden  death  "  may  have  been  a  merciful  reward.  No  doubt  he 
was  another  victim  to  long  and  hard  head-work — another  proof  that 

"  The  brain  o'erwrought 
Preys  on  itself,  and  is  consumed  by  thought." 

But  let  us  picture  the  two  years  and  two  months  of  the  death-bed  of  Thomas  Moore 
— the  mind  gone,  or  but  gUmmering  now  and  then,  in  half  consciousness,  when  he 


456  MEMORIES. 


dimly  recognised  his  "  Bessy."  Let  us  imagine  Robert  Southey  crawling  along  his 
library,  taking  down  one  book  after  another,  in  vain  search  for  some  long-familiar 
passage,  and  sadly  murmuring,  as  he  pressed  his  thin  and  shaking  hand  to  his 
early-wrinkled  brow — "Memory!  memory!  where  art  thou  gone  ?  " 

We  may  be  thankful  that  such  mournful  destiny  was  not  that  of  Charles  Dickens. 

I  first  knew  Charles  Dickens  in  the  year  1826,  when  no  "  shadow  before  "  had 
heralded  the  "coming"  of  fame.  His  father  was  a  Parliamentary  repoi-ter  in  con-, 
nection  with  the  British  Press — a  newspaper  with  which  I  was  also  connected.  It 
seems  but  yesterday — though  it  is  more  than  half  a  century  ago — since  I  first  saw 
him,  then  a  handsome  lad,  gleaning  intelligence  in  the  by-ways  of  the  metropolis — 
taking  in  rapidly  that  he  might,  thereafter,  lavishly  give  out.  From  his  boyhood  he 
had  to  provide  for  himself ;  from  the  age  of  thirteen  years  it  was  his  happy  lot 
not  to  abstract  from,  but  to  augment,  the  income  that  supported  his  home.  On  both 
sides,  his  family  lived  by  severe,  though  honourable  toil — the  toil  of  the  better  classes, 
however,  for  Chailes  Dickens  was  born  a  gentleman  ;  and  if,  until  an  after  period,  he 
was  not  rich,  there  is  no  one  of  his  "  kith  and  kin  "  who  cannot,  to  some  extent,  give 
the  why  and  wherefore  that  it  was  so.  He  was  never  one  who  thought  so  much 
of  his  public  as  to  neglect  his  private  duties ;  but  his  generosities  were  by  no  means 
so  limited  :  if  with  him  charity  began  at  home,  assuredly  it  did  not  end  there. 

Yes,  it  seems  but  yesterday,  at  his  then  residence  in  Doughty  Street,  we  were 
present  at  the  christening  of  his  first-born  child  !  What  a  full  life  it  has  been  from 
that  day  to  this,  on  which  we  write  :  since  we  were  startled  by  the  humour  and 
pathos  of  the  pamphlet-book  in  green  cover  —  Mr.  Pickwick  heralding  a  hundred 
characters,  every  one  of  whom  rises  to  memory  as  I  write — every  one  of  whom  was 
a  creation  of  genius,  to  be  classed  to  the  end  of  time  with  those  that  have  immor- 
talised the  creator ! 

He  became  famous  at  once  :  he  had  not  long  to  wait  for  the  recompense  of  genius 
— the  recompense  it  does  not  always  obtain,  and  which  is  often  postponed  until  the 
ear  is  deaf  to  the  voice  of  the  charmer ;  or,  at  best,  there  has  come  indifference 
to  the  reward.  The  reveille  had  been  sounded  when  the  "  Sketches  "  of  "  Boz  " 
appeared  in  the  Morning  Chronicle.  They  were  read  by  many  who  anticipated  fame 
for  the  author,  in  ignorance  who  he  might  be.  From  the  issue  of  the  first  part  of 
"  Pickwick  "  to  the  day  when  the  pen  fell  from  his  hand,  his  career  was  one  uninter- 
rupted triumph.  For  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  he  was  recognised  as  a  fore- 
most man  of  the  age.  His  many  works  have  delighted,  and — what  is  of  far  greater 
moment — instructed,  millions  ;  and  the  impress  he  has  left  on  the  page  of  literary 
history  will  endure  for  centuries  to  come — as  long  as  the  language  in  which  his  books 
are  written  :  a  language  that  is  now  read  and  spoken  by  hundreds  of  milHons,  and 
which  probably  will  be,  at  no  very  distant  period,  the  common  tongue  of  the  half  of 
humankind. 

The  death— if  the  term  must  be  applied  to  one  who  can  never  die — of  this  largely- 
gifted  and  large-hearted  man  carried  deep  grief  into  every  circle,  not  alone  of  the 
kingdom,  but  of  the  world :  the  highest  and  the  lowest  of  society  alike  felt  that  they 
had  lost  a  friend — one  who  not  only  ministered,  and  always  rightly,  to  their  intel- 


CHARLES  DICKENS.  457 


lectual  enjoyments,  but  was  ever  the  firm  yet  genial  advocate  of  Humanity.  His 
sympathies  were  mainly,  but  by  no  means  exclusively,  with  the  humbler  classes  ;  he 
was  ever  on  the  side  of  all  who  suffered  wrong — ever  the  enemy  of  those  by  whom  it 
was  inflicted.  His  satire — and  he  was  often  a  keen  satirist — was  never  personal, 
either  as  regarded  himself  or  the  vices  and  follies  he  assailed :  of  him  may  be  truly 
said  what  the  poet  said  of  Sheridan — in  "  the  combat "  his  wit 

"  Ne'er  carried  a  heart-stain  away  on  its  blade." 

And  it  is  no  exaggeration  to  apply  to  Charles  Dickens  the  line  that  was  applied  to 
William  Shakspeare — 

"  He  was  not  for  an  age,  but  for  all  time." 

A  sermon — we  may  call  it  a  "funeral  sermon" — was  preached  by  the  Dean  of 
Westminster,  in  Westminster  Abbey,  on  Sunday,  June  the  19th,  1870.  It  was  a 
touching,  beautiful,  and  very  eloquent  discourse.  In  the  course  of  it  he  did  not 
hesitate  to  record  his  opinion  as  to  the  value  of  "  teaching  by  fiction,"  in  allusion  to 
parables,  which  he  in  a  manner  classed  under  that  head — the  Bible  sanctioning  that 
mode  of  instruction,  as  in  a  special  sense  God's  gift  to  our  own  age. 

"  In  various  ages,"  he  said,  "  this  gift  has  assumed  various  forms,  the  divine  flame  of  poetry, 
t'le  far-reachiog  page  of  science,  the  searching  analysis  of  philosophy,  the  glorious  page  of  history, 
the  stirring  eloquence  of  preacher  or  orator,  the  grave  address  of  moralist  or  divine, — all  these  we 
have  had  in  ages  past,  and  to  some  extent  we  have  them  still ;  hut  no  age  has  developed  like  this 
the  gift  of  speaking  in  parables,  of  teaching  by  fiction."  "  Poetry,"  he  continued,  "  may  kindle  a 
loftier  fire,  the  drama  may  rivet  the  attention  more  firmly,  science  may  open  a  wider  horizon,  and 
philosophy  may  touch  a  deeper  spring,  but  no  works  are  so  penetrating  or  so  persuasive,  enter  so 
many  houses,  or  attract  so  many  readers,  as  the  romance  or  novel  of  modern  times."  "  And  in 
proportion  as  the  good  novel  is  the  best,  so  is  the  bad  novel  the  worst  of  instructors ;  but  the  work 
of  the  successful  novelist,  if  pure  in  style,  elevating  in  thought,  and  true  in  its  sentiment,  is  the 
best  of  blessings  to  the  Christian  home,  which  the  bad  writer  would  debase  and  defile." 

The  Dean  in  the  pulpit  reviewed  the  works  of  the  author :  those  portions,  at 
least,  which  supplied  evidence  of  his  large  humanity,  his  advocacy  of  the  poor,  the 
suffering,  and  the  desolate— the  duty  of  sympathy,  unselfish  kindness,  kindly  patience, 
and  tender  thoughtfulness ;  and  he  concluded  by  quoting  a  passage  from  his  Will. 
That  passage,  it  is  scarcely  too  much  to  say,  may  be  more  productive  of  good  to 
mankind  than  all  the  books  he  wrote,  rare  helpers  though  they  be  in  promoting  the 
cause  of  God  and  man.     The  passage  is  this : — 

"  I  COMMIT  MY  SOUL  TO  THE  MERCY  OF  GOD,  THROUGH  OUR  LORD  AND  SAVIOUR 
JESUS  CHRIST,  AND  I  EXHORT  MY  DEAR  CHILDREN  TO  TRY  TO  GUIDE  THEMSELVES  BY 
THE  TEACHING  OF  THE  NEW  TESTAMENT  IN  ITS  BROAD  SPIRIT,  AND  TO  PUT  NO  FAITH 
IN    ANY    man's    NARROW    CONSTRUCTION    OF    ITS    LETTER." 

In  this  age,  when  literature— the  literature  of  fiction,  more  especially— is  so 
frequently  tainted  with  scepticism,  and  writers  abound  who  strive  to  sneer  down  the 
faith  of  a  Christian  as  the  rejected  of  intellectual  women  and  men— it  is  a  great 


458  MEMORIES. 


blessing  to  know  that  among  its  upholders  and  advocates  is  Charles  Dickens ;  and 
that  when  we  read  his  books  we  may  remember  they  were  Avritten  by  aid  and 
guidance  of  that  ever-shining  Light. 

The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens  by  John  Forster  is  well  known — "  better  known 
than  respected  ;  "  his  memory  received  tarnish  rather  than  glory  from  the  efforts  of 
his  friend.  It  is  matter  of  regret  and  not  for  gratification  that  the  task  of  writing 
the  life  of  Charles  Dickens  was  confided  to  John  Forster.  It  has  yet  to  be  written  : 
by  some  one  who  can  comprehend  the  character  of  the  man  as  well  as  the  works  of 
the  author  :  some  one  whose  nature  is  genial  and  kindly  and  generous  and  just  as 
was  his  own. 


MEMOEIES    OF  AETISTS 

(FROM     PERSONAL     ACQUAINTANCE). 


did  so. 


LTHOUGH  they  will  be  Becessarily  brief,  some  Recollections   of 
■  rtists    I   have    known    cannot,    I   think,    be    otherwise    than 
acceptable  to  the  readers  of  this  book.     I  have  already  given 
Memories  of  some ;  I  am  enabled  to  supply  those  of  others. 
Before  I  do  so,  however,  it  may  be  expedient  and  useful  to 
review  the  position  of  British  Art  as  it  was  some  forty  years 
ago,  and  contrast  it  with  the  comparatively  high  and  palmy 
state  to  which  it  has  attained  in  1876.     I  need  not  go  much 
further  back  than  the  year  1839,  when  I  founded  the  Art- 
Journal — a  monthly  work  which,  I  humbly  hope,  has  contributed  to  effect 
the  change  upon  which  Artists,  of  all  ranks   and  grades,  and  certainly  the 
Nation,  may  be  congratulated.     The  remark  applies  not  only  to  Art  proper, 
but  to  the  arts  of  Industry  and  Manufacture. 

When  I  commenced  the  Art-Journal,  Art  was  a  theme  that  occupied  the 
thoughts  of  few.  I  had  literally  to  create  a  Public  for  its  support;  and  I 
During  the  first  ten  years  of  its  existence  it  never  paid  its  expenses  any 
one  year ;  perseverance,  however,  made  it  in  time  popular,  and  it  has  long  been  a 
prosperous  work.*  I  have  been  aided  by  a  very  large  number  of  the  best  and  most 
useful  writers  concerning  Art,  a  list  of  whom  would  be  a  very  long  Hst ;  f  and  I  have 
had  the  co-operation  of  many  eminent  artists ;  to  private  collectors  also  I  have  been 
largely  uidebted,  more  especially  to  the  late  Mr.  Yernon,  who  gave  me  the  valuable 
right  to  engrave  his  Gallery;  and,  above  all,  to  her  Most  Gracious  Majesty 
the  Queen  and  the  good  Prince  Albert,  who  accorded  to  me  the  privilege  of 
engraving  their  Private  Collections  of  pictures  at  Buckingham  Palace,  Windsor,  and 
Osborne. 

It  struggled  for  bare  existence  during  many  years  ;    and  its  lamp  would  have 
"gone  out"  but  for  the  thought  that  I  might  make  it  the  representative  of  a  class 

_  *  The  Art-Journal  was  originally  published  as  the  Art-  Union.  It  was  issued  as  a  post  sheet,  price  eightpence, 
I  increased  the  price  to  one  shilliag,  then  to  eighteenpsnoe,  then  to  two  shillings,  and  then  to  half-a-crown.  Each 
time  I  raised  the  price  the  cii'culation  was  doubled  ;  the  cost  of  production,  however,  was  augmented  in  proportion. 
+  During  thirty- three  of  these  thirty-seven  years  I  have  had  constantly  working  by  my  side,  as  assistant 
editor,  Mr.  Jamhs  Dafporne.  I  should  be  uagrateful  if  I  made  no  record  of  his  long  and  valuable  services,  for  to 
them  I  am  very  largely  indebted  ;  and  to  his  zeal  and  active  industry,  as  well  as  ability,  I  must  attribute  much  of 
the  success  and  prosperity  of  the  work. 


46o  MEMORIES. 


that  never  had  been  in  any  remote  degree  represented — the  Art-manufacturers,  and 
so  to  show  "the  mercantile  value  of  the  Fine  Arts."  To  that  feature  of  the 
work  I  must  entirely  attribute  its  success.  As  a  publication  for  Artists  only,  it  never 
would  have  succeeded. 

That  is  enough  to  say  of  this  undertaking,  although  its  history  might  be  deemed 
curious  and  instructive  during  the  thirty-seven  years,  from  1839  to  1876. 

Fifty  years  ago — nay,  forty— there  was  little  or  no  patronage  for  native  Art. 
Portrait- painters,  indeed,  were  rich;  but  historic -painters  rarely  received  "com- 
missions ;  "  and  landscape-painters  had  their  remunerative  employment  chiefly  from 
the  publishers,  as  illustrators  of  books.  One  of  the  greatest  artists  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  Hilton,  never  had  a  commission,  and  did  not  sell  six  pictures  of  size  all  his 
life.  Prout,  Harding,  Copley  Fielding,  Dewint,  Barrett,  David  Cox — these  are  names 
of  but  a  few  of  the  masters  in  landscape-art,  who  produced  drawings  which  were  paid 
for  at  the  rate  of  little  more  than  a  shilling  for  every  square  inch.  Leslie  sold  his 
picture,  of  "  Sancho  and  the  Duchess,"  to  Rogers,  for  seventy-four  pounds;  it  was 
bought  by  a  dealer,  at  the  sale  of  the  poet's  goods,  for  eleven  hundred  and  twenty 
guineas.  Wilkie's  "Errand  Boy,"  a  canvas  measuring  fourteen  inches  by  nineteen 
inches,  brought  at  Christie's  the  sum  of  one  thousand  and  fifty  guineas :  probably 
Wilkie  received  for  it  the  odd  fifty. 

These  cases  are  but  two  of  hundreds :  every  sale  at  Christie's  furnishes  evidence 
of  the  same  kind — not  alone  of  artists  who  are  dead,  but  of  artists  who  are  yet 
vigorously  at  work.  While  he  lived,  a  picture  by  Stanfield  sold  for  upwards  of  two 
thousand  pounds,  for  which  probably  he  received  two  hundred  pounds  ;  and  a  picture 
by  John  Linnell  for  twelve  hundred  pounds,  for  Avhich  I  have  reason  to  know  he 
received  fifty  pounds.  It  is  needless  for  me  to  quote  more  of  such  cases ;  I  could 
furnish  them  by  hundreds.* 

I  have  been  present,  more  than  once,  at  a  private  view  of  the  Exhibition  of  the 
Royal  Academy,  when  there  was  not  (excepting  portraits)  a  single  picture  in  the 
collection  "  sold  ;  "  and  I  well  remember  the  sensation  created,  on  another  occasion 
of  a  private  view,  when  it  was  communicated  by  a  buzz  of  astonishment  throughout 
the  company  that  some  one  had  bought  a  picture  for  the  sum  of  two  hundred 
guineas  ! 

How  is  it  now  ?  Not  long  ago  I  was  called  upon  by  a  gentleman  at  Liverpool  to 
select  for  him  from  one  of  the  exhibitions  a  picture  of  the  value  of  one  hundred 
pounds — a  prize  he  had  gained  in  the  Art-Union  of  London.  I  did  my  best.  At 
the  Royal  Academy  I  made  notes  of  thirty-two  pictures,  which  I  supposed  to  be 
about  the  value  named,  of  course  omitting  all  I  believed  to  have  been  previously  sold. 


*  So  recently  as  1849-50,  Mr.  Lmnell  had  very  rarely  been  able  to  sell  a  picture.  I  called  upon  him  when  he 
was  residing  in  Porohester  Terrace  :  he  was  m  a  state  of  great  despondency,  complaining  that  he  could  not  live  by 
his  profession  as  an  artist— that  he  had  tried  portrait-painting  without  success  ;  engraving— and  it  had  been  a 
failure  ;  in  a  few  words,  he  said,  "Nobodywill  buy  a  picture  of  mine."  His  painting-room  was  then  crowded  with 
his  works.  A  few  months  afterwards  I  saw  at  the  British  Institution  one  of  his  pictures,  small,  but  very  beautiful 
I  described  it  to  Mr.  Vernon  (who  then  lived  at  No.  60,  Pall  Mall),  and  recommended  him  to  buy  it.  After  some 
hesitation,  as  he  could  not  see  it,  bemg  then  confined  to  his  bed,  he  commissioned  me  to  purchase  it  for  him  I  did 
so  for  the,  sum  of  forty  pounds.  That  picture,  "the  Storm,"  is  one  of  the  gems  of  the  Vernon  Gallery,  and  would 
probably  bring  eight  hundred  pounds  at  a  pubhc  sale.  Mr.  Linnell  finds  it  easy  now  to  obtain  eight  hundred 
pounds  for  a  picture  not  half  so  good. 


MEMORIES. 


\b\ 


When  I  consulted  the  book  of  the  secretary  of  the  Eoyal  Academy,  I  found  that  my 
choice  must  be  hmited  to  three— the  twenty-nine  others  having  been  disposed  of— 
and  I  was  compelled  to  buy  a  picture  which  the  artist  had  valued  at  eighty  pounds, 
the  only  one  that  approximated  to  the  prize  of  one  hundred  pounds.  In°a  word,  now 
at  any  of  the  Metropolitan  exhibitions,  and  generally  in  those  of  the  Provinces,  there 
is  hardly  a  picture  of  merit  returned  to  the  artist  "  unsold."  * 

A  hundred  years  have  barely  passed  since  the  Eoyal  Academy  was  founded; 
fifty  years  ago,  there  was  no  national  collection  of  Art-works  in  England.  In 
1824  the  Government  of  the  country  gave  some  thought  to  Art,  forming  the 
nucleus  of  a  gallery  by  the  purchase  of  the  Angerstein  pictures ;  there  was  no 
Government  department  of  Science  and  Art ;  no  Provincial  Art-schools  existed 
fifty  years  ago.  In  182B  the  Society  of  British  Artists  was  established  ;  in  1804  the 
Society  of  Painters  in  Water  Colours  ;  the  Artists'  Fund  was  founded  in  1810, 
obtaining  its  charter  of  incorporation  in  1827 ;  and  the  Artists'  General  Benevolent 
Fund  in  1814,  obtaining  its  charter  in  1842.  In  1834  the  Koyal  Institution  of 
British  Architects  was  established,  obtaining  its  charter  in  1837.  In  1826  the 
Koyal  Hibernian  Academy  was  founded  ;  and  in  the  same  year  the  Royal  Scottish 
Academy.  These  are,  even  now,  the  only  National  Institutions  for  the  promotion  of 
Art ;  for  although  there  are  some  societies  in  London  and  the  provinces,  they  are 
essentially  of  a  private  and  local  character. 

Art  was  not  considered  essential  to  the  education  of  society,  nor  important  to  the 
well-being  of  the  country.  Until  about  forty  years  ago  there  was  Httle  or  no 
'patronage  of  British  Art.  The  wealthy  aristocracy  had  their  houses  full  of  pictures, 
indeed ;  and  among  them  were,  and  are,  many  of  the  most  glorious  achievements  of 
genius ;  but  they  were,  and  are,  principally  old  masters  ;  works  by  modern  artists 
being  comparatively  few. 

The  true  Art-patrons  of  our  immediate  time  had  not  yet  felt  the  impetus  now  so 
general.  The  merchant-princes,  the  manufacturers,  the  iron-masters,  the  ship-owners, 
nay,  the  drapers  and  grocers,  were  spending  much  money  in  buying  pictures  ;  but 
they,  too,  were  impressed  with  a  belief  that  what  was  old  was  good,  and  what  was 
new  was  of  no  worth.  Time  taught  them  another  lesson,  and  to  that  I  will  presently 
refer. 

I  will  illustrate  this  position  by  an  anecdote.  Somewhere  about  the  year  1846  I 
visited  an  eminent  manufacturer,  Mr.  Charles  Meigh,  at  Hanley,  in  Staffordshire. 
Hanging  in  his  drawing-room  were  two  pictures,  among  others — one  by  "Rubens," 
the  other  a  joint  production  of  Webster  and  Creswick  ;  for  the  Rubens  he  had  paid 
five  hundred  pounds,  and  for  the  Webster  and  Creswick  sixty  pounds.  I  somewhat 
startled  him  by  saying  I  would  give  much  more  for  the  latter  than  I  would  for  the 
former.  Some  three  or  four  years  afterwards,  his  collection  was  publicly  sold  at 
Christie's.  The  Webster  and  Creswick  brought  three  hundred  pounds  (it  would  now 
sell  for  six  hundred  pounds),  and  the  so-called  Rubens  was  bought  in  for  eighty  pounds. 

*  To  the  present  high  and  palmy  state  of  British  Art  the  Art-Union  of  London  has  very  largely  contributed  ; 
and  the  gratitude  of  all  artists  and  the  Nation  is  due  to  the  former  Honorary  Secretary  of  that  valuable  Institution 
—George  Godwin,  Esq.,  F.E.S. ;  and  also  to  the  present  Honorary  Secretary,  Lewis  I'ocock,  Esq.,  E.S.A. 


462  MEMORIES. 


But,  in  fact,  the  importation  of  "  old  masters  "  into  England  (to  say  nothing  of  the 
number  manufactured  in  this  country)  was  prodigious.  Year  after  year,  between  1841 
and  1846,  I  printed  in  the  Art- Journal  annual  returns  of  such  importations  at  the 
London  custom-house.  From  these  returns  I  produced  evidence  that  between  the 
years  1833  and  1843,  inclusive,  102,269  pictures  by  "  old  masters  "  had  been  imported 
into  England,  paying  a  duty  (one  shilling  the  square  foot)  of  ^628, 260  in  eleven  years. 
These  "  old  masters "  professed  to  be  the  works  of  Raphael,  Titian,  liubens, 
Vandyke,  &c.  &c.  ;  and  probably  of  the  102,269,  269  only  were  genuine ;  for  in  one 
year — the  year  1847 — a  larger  number  of  importations  bore  the  name  of  "  Titian  " 
than  Titian  had  painted  all  his  long  life. 

I  hope  I  may  be  allowed,  without  risking  the  charge  of  presumption,  to  say  that 
for  many  years  I  ran  a-tilt  against  the  culpable  and  foul  delusion  which  led  people 
to  believe  that  when  they  bought  a  "  Titian,"  or  other  work  alleged  to  be  by  a  great 
artist,  they  obtained  a  veritable  production  of  the  master.  I  exposed  the  iniquities 
of  dealers  in  these  frauds  ;  showed  where  "  old  masters  "  were  painted,  "  baked," 
and  received  the  artificial  character  of  age  ;  told  how  exposures  followed  attempts  to 
re-sell  them,  and  that  buyers  of  such  works  were  without  any  legal  remedy ;  and 
I  placed  in  juxtaposition  the  prices,  largely  augmented,  which  modern  paintings  of 
a  high  class  brought  at  public  sales — such  cases  as  that  I  have  referred  to  of 
Mr.  Charles  Meigh,  his  "Rubens"  and  his  "Webster." 

I  warned  wealthy,  but  ignorant,  buyers  of  the  snares  laid  for  them  by  dealers  ; 
of  concocted  stories  and  certificates  ;  of  warranties  that  meant  nothing  ;  of  auto- 
graphic marks  that  were  the  shallowest  deceptions  ;  I  warned  them,  in  a  word,  that 
when  they  bought  pictures  they  were,  ninety-nine  times  out  of  a  hundred,  cheated, 
but  that  modern  masters  could  be  always  tested — reference  to  the  presumed  painter 
being  sure  evidence ;  that,  in  fact,  the  one  was  a  safe,  the  other  at  least  an  unsafe, 
INVESTMENT  ;  and  that,  even  regarded  as  a  sound  policy  of  trade,  they  would  do  well 
to  reject  the  one  class,  and  become  possessors  of  the  other. 

Such  exposures,  month  after  month,  produced  fruit ;  wealthy  men  became  con- 
vinced ;  they  bought  modern  pictures  as,  at  all  events,  not  a  losing  speculation, 
eschewing  the  old  masters  as  things  perilous  to  touch.  The  trade  was  destroyed  : 
nowadays,  when  ancient  pictures  are  sold  (unless  there  be  ample  evidence  of  descent 
and  value),  they  are  bought  as  furniture-pictures,  for  little  more  than  the  cost  of  the 
frames  ! 

Sculpture  was  in  a  state  no  better :  perhaps  worse.  Busts  and  monumental 
groups  were,  indeed,  often  commissioned  ;  but  for  sculpture  of  the  higher  class  there 
was  no  demand,  or  little.  Nollekens,  indeed,  had  amassed  a  fortune,  partly  by 
frugal  habits  and  hard  industry,  but  chiefly  by  making  busts  and  monumental  works 
for  the  Government ;  Bacon  also  prospered  under  similar  patronage ;  so  also  did 
Banks  ;  and,  somewhat  later,  Chantrey  found  profitable  the  national  love  of  por- 
traiture— living  and  dying  rich.  But  although  Baily  and  Westmacott  obtained  com- 
missions for  poetical  sculpture,  Flaxman  worked  for  miserable  payments,  which  came 
from  manufacturers.  He  received  for  his  designs  for  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey — 
thirty-nine  of  one,  and  thirty-four  of  the  other — fifteen  shillings  each !  and  there  are 


MEMORIES. 


463 


bills  extant  which  show  that  for  many  of  his  models  for  Wedgwood  he  was  paid  half- 
a-guinea  each. 

Forty  years  ago  there  was  scarcely  a  British  sculptor  who  could  keep  a  house  by 
his  labours  ;  and  certainly  none,  excepting  Chantrey,  Westmacott,  and  Baily,  who 
had  a  "commission"  save  for  busts.  The  "Bacchus  and  Ino "  of  Foley  lay 
neglected  in  his  humble  atelier.  MacDowell  had  never  furnished  a  work  in  marble  to 
any  "patron"  excepting  one— Mr.  Beaumont:  and  for  the  lesser  stars  there  was 
literally  nothing  to  do.  How  is  it  now  ?  The  art  of  sculpture  is  as  prosperous  as 
the  sister  art  of  painting.* 

Engraving,  unhappily,  is  now,  in  England,  nearly  a  vanished  art.  Excepting 
the  works  executed  for  the  Art-Journal  there  are  very  few  line  engravinf^s  proo-ress- 
ing  in  Great  Britain.  The  mezzotint-scrapers  and  professors  of  the  mixed  style  are, 
indeed,  partially  employed ;  but  the  new  art  of  photography  has  been  fatal  to  the 
higher,  and,  indeed,  to  the  humbler,  art  of  the  engraver.  The  engraver  had  his 
palmy  days  forty  or  fifty  years  ago,  when  sums  varying  from  one  hundred  to  two 
hundred  guineas  were  paid  by  publishers  for  engravings  averaging  five  square  inches 
in  size  !  I  paid  to  Le  Keux  one  hundred  and  eighty  guineas  for  an  engravinc^  of 
that  size — the  "Crucifixion,"  after  John  Martin;  and  one  hundred  and  forty 
guineas  to  John  Henry  Robinson  for  a  fancy  portrait,  no  larger,  from  a  painting  by 
the  elder  Pickersgill. 

I  have  offered  some  remarks  as  to  the  position  of  the  artist  in  reference  to  the 
money-rewards  he  now  obtains  for  his  labours,  in  comparison  with  those  awarded  to 
him  fifty  years  ago.  I  am,  however,  by  no  means  sure  that  this  advantage  is  with- 
out alloy,  or  that  the  status  of  the  artist  has  advanced  in  proportion.  The  dealer  is 
now  his  patron  ;  he  sees  little  and  knows  nothing  of  the  collector  who  buys  his 
work ;  it  has  closed  the  refining  and  elevating  influence  that  resulted  from  inter- 
course between  those  who  created  and  those  who  appreciated.  A  work  is  purchased 
as  a  bale  of  cotton  is  bought — because  it  may  yield  a  profit  to  those  who  sell.  A 
name  that  is  known  to  be  "marketable"  is  attached  to  a  picture,  and  it  brinos  a 
high  price.  As  the  production  of  Brown,  Jones,  or  Eobinson,  it  wonld  find  no 
purchaser.  The  natural  consequence  is,  that  a  picture  frequently  leaves  the  easel 
and  is  sent  "home,"  when  in  a  state  very  far  from  finished.  The  fatal  sentence, 
"It  will  do,"  consigns  it  to  its  owner,  and  fame  and  glory  have  no  share  in  the 
contract. 

I  might  enlarge  much  on  this  topic,  but  space  limits  me  to  a  regret  that  the 
artists  of  to-day  have  less  lofty  ambitions  than  had  the  artists  of  yesterday.  They 
are  wealthier,  no  doubt.  Some  modern  painters  have  made  more  in  a  year  than 
their  predecessors  made  in  half  a  century.  Nay,  some  who  are  living  have  obtained 
much  more  money  for  their  productions  during  only  one  year,  within  the  last  twenty 


*  When  I  began  to  engrave  works  in  sculpture  for  introduction  into  the  Art-Journal,  I  received  many  emphatic 
warnings  as  to  the  hazard  I  was  incurring.  Some  over-sensitive  persons  did  actually  reject  the  work,  and  others 
cautioned  me  that  society  was  not  yet  prepared  to  receive,  without  a  shudder,  pictures  of  the  semi-nude.  In  more 
than  one  instance,  the  sculpture  plate  was  torn  out  of  the  number  and  sent  to  me  through  the  post  with  an  indig- 
nant protest.  To  the  pure  all  things  are  pure.  I  persevered ;  I  overcame  the  prejudice  by  contending  against  it ; 
and  now  these  engravings  fi'om  sculptured  works  are  the  most  popular  the  Art-Journal  oontaics. 


464  MEMORIES. 


years — notably  John  Linnell — than  they  had  obtained  for  them  during  the  whole 
of  the  previous  forty  ;  while  there  is  no  comparison  between  the  real  value  of  that 
for  which  they  were  paid  shillings  and  that  for  which  they  received  pounds. 

It  may  seem  harsh  and  unnatural  to  speak  of  such  prosperity  in  a  tone  of  lamen- 
tation;  that  "the  commercial  element"  should  enter  into  Art-products  as  it  does 
into  cotton-spinning  and  road-making ;  that  greater  thought  should  be  given  to  what 
a  work  will  bring  than  to  its  real  merit !  Few  men  make  greater  haste  to  be  rich, 
and  render  more  profound  homage  to  the  means  by  which  the  object  is  attained. 
The  consequence  is  that  the  profession  is  becoming  isolated  ;  artists  associate  with 
artists,  but  do  not  often  mix  in  general  society,  and  seldom  with  the  intellectual 
world.  At  meetings  of  learned  societies  few  artists  are  ever  present ;  while  between 
artists  and  men  of  letters  intercourse  seems  to  have  closed — to  the  manifest  dis- 
advantage of  both. 

I  hope  these  introductory  remarks  will  not  be  considered  tiresome  or  out  of 
place,  as  the  preface  to  my  Recollections  of  some  of  the  older  of  the  British  painters 
— the  men  who  are  not  dead,  but  departed,  "  for  the  artist  never  dies." 

I  recall  first  to  memory  the  President  of  the  Royal  Academy,  Benjamin  West.  In 
the  year  1816  I  was  a  schoolboy  in  London.  West's  picture  of  "  Death  on  the  Pale 
Horse  "  was  exhibiting  at  his  house  in  Newman  Street.  I  went  to  see  it,  and  some 
observation  I  made  (I  cannot  tell  what)  must  have  struck  the  venerable  man  ;  for  I 
remember  his  laying  his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and  saying,  "  You  are  perfectly  right, 
young  gentleman."  He  was  a  small,  slight  man,  dressed  in  a  light  grey  dressing- 
gown,  and  wearing  light  pantaloons — the  habit  of  the  time.  His  white  and  bald 
head  was  singularly  fine  and  picturesque,  his  forehead  very  lofty  and  broad,  his 
manners  peculiarly  suave  and  gracious,  "  His  appearance,"  writes  Leigh  Hunt,  who 
knew  him  intimately,  "  was  so  gentlemanly,  that  the  moment  he  changed  his  gown 
for  a  coat  he  seemed  to  be  full  dressed."  Leigh  Hunt  describes  his  "  garden  "  in 
Newman  Street.  "It  was  small,  but  elegant,  with  a  grass-plot  in  the  middle,  and 
busts  upon  stands  under  an  arcade."  Though  a  Quaker,  he  was  a  courtier  ;  and 
though  an  American,  he  contrived  to  obtain  and  keep  the  friendship  of  George  III. 
He  was  born  in  1738,  at  Springfield,  in  Pennsylvania,  and  died  in  1820,  at  the  ripe 
age  of  eighty-two. 

I  may  introduce  the  names  of  the  three  successors  of  West — Lawrence,  Shee, 
and  Eastlake.     Of  Lawrence  I  have  already  written. 

SiK  Martin  Archee  Shee  succeeded  Lawrence  in  1830.  He  was  born  in 
Dublin  in  1770.  He  was  a  small,  active,  and  energetic  man,  with  the  manners  of 
an  Irish  gentleman — that  is  to  say,  courteous,  and  conciliating,  and  sympathising, 
yet  easily  excited  and  eager,  to  unreason,  for  any  cause  of  which  he  was  the  advo- 
cate. Moreover,  he  had  that  faculty  for  which  so  many  of  his  countrymen  are 
eminent — he  spoke  well,  occasionally  with  eloquence,  and  was,  as  few  of  his 
countrymen  are,  a  man  of  business.     There  were   better  artists — better  portrait- 


SIR    CHARLES  LOCK  EASTLAKE.  465 

painters  even — in  1830 ;  but  none  so  fit  for  the  high  position  he  held  with  honour 
to  himself  and  to  his  profession ;  none  who  could  have  so  ably  upheld  the  character 
or  augmented  the  power  of  the  Academy  over  which  he  presided.  He  was  a  poet  as 
well  as  a  painter,  and  a  scholar  as  well  as  a  critic.  His  "  Rhymes  on  Art,"  and  his 
tragedy  of  Alasco  were  read,  and  may  yet  be  read,  with  pleasure.  Perhaps  in  his 
advocacy  of  the  rights  and  privileges  of  the  Royal  Academy  he  forgot  the  broad 
interests  of  Art,  fighting  for  the  Academy  as  a  "  private  institution"  in  noway 
responsible  to  Parliament  or  the  country,  and  resisting  all  attempts  to  strengthen, 
by  judicious  changes,  its  power  for  good  while  increasing  its  means  of  utility. 
Though  fierce  enough  with  his  pen,  he  was  gentle  and  generous  in  all  his  domestic 
relations,  just  and  honourable  in  all  public  transactions  up  to  his  death,  in  his  eighty- 
first  year,  in  1850,  when  an  annual  pension  of  £200  was  granted  from  the  Civil  List 
to  his  widow,  and  subsequently  to  his  daughters. 

There  are  few  who  knew  Sir  Martin  Archer  Shee — and  he  was  the  friend  oi 
Moore,  Grattan,  Sydney  Smith,  and  many  other  high  souls  of  his  age — who  will 
refuse  to  indorse  the  compliment  of  Byron, — 

"  And  here  let  Shee  and  Genius  find  a  place, 
Whose  pen  and  pencil  yield  an  equal  grace ; 
To  guide  whose  hand  the  sister  arts  combine, 
And  trace  the  Poet's  as  the  Painter's  line  : 
;  Whose  magic  touch  can  bid  the  canvas  glow, 

And  form  the  easy  rhyme's  harmonious  flow, 
While  honours  doubly  merited  attend 
The  Poet's  rival,  but  the  Painter's  Iriend." 

As  President  he  was  dignified,  firm,  laborious,  energetic,  with  much  strength  of 
character  and  constitutional  vigour.  He  was  accessible  to  all  young  aspirants  for 
fame,  and  is  one  of  the  many  glories  of  the  country  that  gave  him  birth. 

Sir  Charles  Lock  Eastlake,  the  successor  of  Sir  Martin  Archer  Shee,  died  at 
his  residence  in  Fitzroy  Square,  on  the  23rd  of  December,  1865,  and  left  a  blank  in 
Art,  and  especially  in  Art-literature,  which  it  has  been  impossible  to  fill  up.  If  not 
entitled  to  rank  among  the  great  artists  of  his  age,  he  was  a  painter  of  high  class, 
usually  selecting  lofty  subjects,  and  manifested  with  his  pencil  the  profound  know- 
ledge he  had  exhibited  by  his  pen. 

To  criticise  his  numerous  works  with  both,  or  even  to  give  a  list  of  them,  is 
beyond  my  purpose.  He  was  thoroughly  a  gentleman  as  well  as  a  scholar;  had 
"  taken  in  "  from  every  available  source  of  information ;  had  travelled,  read,  and 
seen  much,  and  thought  deeply.  All  that  his  predecessors,  of  all  countries  and 
periods,  had  written  or  painted,  was  familiar  to  him  ;  and  he  brought  his  own  mind 
to  bear  upon  them  so  as  very  often  to  give  a  new  light  to  the  creations  of  genius 

in  Art. 

His  personal  appearance  was  greatly  in  his  favour  :  his  head  was  fine,  his 
expression  urbane,  his  manners  kindly ;  they  lacked,  indeed,  energy  and  decision, 
and  had  a  certain  tone  of  tim-idity-far  too  much  the  air  of  "letting  I  dare  not  wait 
upon  I  would."  And  that  was  his  character.  If  with  his  own  high  probity,  his  rare 
scholarship,  his  gentie  "  ways,"  he  had  combined  tlie  indomitable  will  of  his  country- 

H    H 


man  of  Devonshire,  Haydon,  and  had,  perhaps,  possessed  a  larger  allotment  of  self- 
esteem,  his  power  would  have  been  infinitely  greater  than  it  was  to  elevate  his  pro- 
fession and  render  its  status  higher  than  it  is.  His  refinement,  which  sometimes 
degenerated  into  weakness,  was  no  doubt  mainly  the  result  of  his  nature,  but  it  was 
strengthened  by  the  high  society  to  which,  from  an  early  period,  he  was  admitted  ; 
it  placed  him  on  a  pedestal  from  which  he  looked  down  on  his  brethren  in  Art — or 
certainly  seemed,  and  was  thought,  to  do  so>' 

But  he  had  never  studied  in  the  school  of  adversity ;  better  for  him  would  it  have 
been  if  he  had  experienced  its  "  sweet  uses  ;  "  they  would  have  taught  him  conside- 
ration— which  he  did  not  possess ;  sympathy^ — which  he  lacked  ;  and  would  have 
associated  benevolence  of  mind  with  courtesy  of  manners. 

He  was  born  at  Plymouth  in  1793,  his  father  being  a  solicitor  in  that  town  of 
Devonshire  ;  was  educated  at  the  Charter-house  ;  and  was  free  to  choose  a  profession, 
unembarrassed  by  any  of  the  untoward  circumstances  that  so  often  beset  the  com- 
mencement of  a  career.  Honours  came  to  him  early,  and  continued  with  him  late. 
If  many  have  been  more  loved,  none  were  more  respected ;  and  to  be  respected 
appeared  the  end  and  aim  of  his  ambition. 

Of  the  immediate  contemporaries  of  President  West  I  might  say  something. 
FusELi,  whom  I  knew  at  a  much  later  period  than  1816,  was  a  little,  bustling, 
energetic  man,  full  of  movement — apparently  irritable  movement ;  he  was  the  beau 
ideal  of  the  vulgar  notion  of  a  Frenchman—"  not  always,"  writes  Leigh  Hunt,  "  as 
decorous  as  an  old  man  ought  to  be."  Haydon  hits  his  character  admirably  : — "  To 
such  a  temperament  as  his,  Nature  was  an  annoyance,  because  she  is  an  irrefutable 
reproof  to  extravagance  and  untruth."  His  acquirements  were  great,  and  his  vigour 
in  conversation  was  remarkable.  "  He  could  not  argue,"  writes  Haydon,  "  but 
illustrated  everything  by  a  brilliant  repartee,"  The  ghastly  character  of  his  com- 
positions, generally,  requires  no  comment.  He  laboured  to  produce  unnatural  effects 
as  earnestly  as  most  men  do  to  avoid  them ;  and  it  is  said  that  he  painted  scenes  and 
objects  he  saw  in  visions  of  the  night — which  visions  were  the  results  of  wanton  fits 
of  indigestion,  consequent  upon  eating  raw  beef-steaks  for  supper.  He  was  born  at 
Zurich  in  1741,  and  died  in  London  in  1825. 

What  shall  I  say  of  immortal  John  Flaxman  ?  What  language  can  accord  justice 
to  that  illustrious  man  ?  What  an  example  he  was — that  high,  yet  humble  artist — 
from  the  time  when,  seated  on  a  high-backed  chair  in  his  father's  image-shop,  laying 
aside  his  crutches,  he  dedicated  his  soul  to  Art,  to  the  day  when,  an  aged  man,  he 
left  his  holy  place  on  earth  for  the  Celestial  City,  to  which  all  his  hopes  had  ever 
tended !  An  example  of  earnest  thought,  patient  labour,  enduring  fortitude  ;  of 
genius  that  sought  no  recompense  save  the  sanction  of  conscience  and  the  approval 
of  Grod  ;  of  intense  toil,  otherwise  ill  rewarded ;  thinking  it  no  condescension  to  work 

*  Eastlake  was  continually  supplying:  evidence  of  the  caution  that  amoimted  to  timidity.  He  would  risk 
nothing;  the  adage,  "  Nothing  venture  nothing  have,"  was  distasteful  to  him.  I  have  several  letters  .of  his  on 
subjects  the  most  trite  and  common-place,  but  he  generally  mai'ked  them  "private." 


TURNER.  ^67 


for  the  potter— his  best  patron,  Wedgwood— a  kindred  spirit,  next  in  greatness  to 
himself;  discharging  faithfully  all  the  minor  as  well  as  the  higher  duties ;  and,  above 
all,  rejoicing  m  that  pure  Christianity  which  teaches  love  to  neighbour  as  only  next 
in  order  to  love  of  the  Creator.  Ay,  his  was  the  true  Christian  charity  that  "  vaunteth 
not  itself,  is  not  easily  provoked,  thinketh  no  evil,  rejoiceth  in  the  truth."  His 
tombstone  in  St.  Giles-in-the-Fields  records  his  death  on  the  7th  of  December,  1826, 
and  truly  tells  us  that  "his  mortal  life  was  a  constant  preparation  for  a  blessed 
immortality." 

I  recall  the  small,  delicate,  fragile-looking  old  man,  somewhat  bent  in  form,  his 
head  slightly  depressed— that  head  which  it  would  be  scarcely  profanation  to  call 
"  divine,"  the  expression  was  so  gentle,  so  sweet,  so  loveable  ;  it  was  all  harmony, 
yet  strong  evidence  of  strength  was  there— of  work  done.  He  did  not  live  long  after 
I  knew  him ;  but  it  is  a  privilege  to  have  seen,  conversed  with,  and  touched  the  hand 
by  which  such  great  things  had  been  wrought. 

Not  long  after  he  left  earth,  I  spent  a  day  with  his  sister-in-law,  Miss  Denman, 
at  the  house  in  which  the  great  artist  had  dwelt.  All  matters  were  much  as  he  had 
left  them :  he  had  been  the  "idol  of  a  household,"  loved,  reverenced  !  The  house 
in  Norton  Street  was  full  of  relics— sketches,  drawings,  models ;  among  them  a 
miniature  of  the  sculptor,  fainUd  by  himself.  If  I  had  space,  I  could  picture  that 
room,  and  describe  each  of  the  noble  "  thoughts  "  it  contained.  They  are  scattered 
now ;  the  honoured  name  is  borne  by  no  successor ;  but  there  is  a  glorious  monu- 
ment to  his  memory  in  his  collected  works  at  the  London  University ;  and  so  long  as 
Art  endures,  the  name  of  Flaxman  will  be  imperishable. 

I  may  echo  the  words  of  Lawrence  over  the  grave  of  that  man  of  lofty  soul  and 
gentle  spirit, — "  It  is  just  that  you  should  admire  and  revere  him  ;  it  is  just,  on  every 
principle  of  taste  and  virtue,  that  you  should  venerate  his  memory !  "  * 

If  I  find  it  difficult  to  speak  of  Flaxman,  what  can  I  say  of  Turnee,  of  whom  so 
much  has  been  written  and  said  ?  There  is  no  Art-lover  who  will  hesitate  to  offer 
profound  homage  to  his  renowned  name  ;  none  will  be  found  to  tender  respect  or 
affection  to  the  man.  He  was  a  singular  compound  of  greatness  and  littleness.  It 
is  scarcely  too  much  to  apply  to  him  the  line  of  the  poet, — 

"  The  greatest  and  the  meanest  of  manljmd," 

But  I  am  not  to  criticise  either  him  or  his  immortal  works ;  I  merely  describe 
him.  He  was  short  and  thick,  singularly  ungraceful,  with  thin  lips — ever  the  indi- 
cation of  a  thrift-loving  soul — with  thick  shaggy  eyebrows,  but  a  remarkably  brilliant 
eye,  and  expressive,  though  shrewd,  features.     Whenever  he  appeared  in  public — 


•  This  inscription  is  on  his  tomb  in  the  church  of  "  St.  GUes-in-the-Fields,"  where  he  was  buried  ; 

JOHN  FLAXMAN,  R.A., 

Whose  mortal  life  was  a  preparation  for  a  blessed  immortality. 

His  angelic  spirit  returned  to  the  Divine  Giver 

On  the  7th  Dec.,  1826, 

In  the  seventy- second  year  of  his  age. 

H    H    2 


MEMORIES. 


occasions  chiefly  limited  to  private  views  of  the  Royal  Academy — he  wore  a  blue  coat 
with  gilt  buttons,  the  creases  being  palpable,  that  showed  it  had  but  recently  been 
removed  from  the  drawer  in  which  it  had  reposed  for  perhaps  a  year  ;  and  I  remember 
a  positive  sensation  being  created  at  Somerset  House  when  an  audible  whisper  of 
wonder  went  round, — "Look  at  Turner:  why,  he  has  a  pair  of  new  gloves  !  "  He 
amassed  an  immense  fortune  :  he  had  no  heart  to  spend  it — he  altogether  forgot  "  to 
do  good  and  to  distribute."  It  is  said,  and  I  believe  with  truth,  that  his  father  was 
the  curator  of  his  large  gallery  in  Queen  Anne  Street;  but  that  he  made  the  old  man 
account  to  him  for  the  shillings  he  received  from  visitors,  and  deducted  them  from 
his  weekly  allowance  of  sixteen  shillings  !  Prout  once  told  me  a  story  of  him  that 
may  be  worth  preserving  : — Turner,  Prout,  and  Varley  were  on  a  sketching  tour  in 
Devonshire ;  they  had  to  cross  a  ferry,  the  passage  charge  for  which  was  sixpence. 
Varley  did  not  happen  to  have  any  change,  and  borrowed  the  money  from  Turner — 
who  advanced  it  reluctantly.  Next  morning,  Varley  and  Prout  took  the  Exeter  coach 
for  London,  leaving  Turner  behind.  But,  to  their  surprised  gratification,  although 
the  hour  was  daybreak,  and  the  morning  bleak  and  dark,  they  saw  Turner  at  the 
coach-office,  waiting  to  see  them  off.  Varley  acknowledged  the  compliment,  and 
thanked  him.  "  No,"  said  Turner,  "it  isn't  that;  but  you  forgot  to  give  me  back 
the  sixpence  I  lent  you  yesterday." 

I  leave  this  Memory  very  *'  bald  :  "  it  would  be  easy  to  say  much  concerning  him 
by  "  borrowing"  from  books  ;  but  very  little  could  be  said  by  anyone  from  personal 
knowledge,  and  that  little  would  not  be  to  the  credit  of  the  great  artist — foremost 
among  the  greatest  of  any  age  or  country. 

His  memory  must  have  been  absolutely  wonderful :  he  seemed  also  to  take  in  a 
mass  of  objects  at  a  glance.  Prout  told  me  he  had  been  with  him  often  when  a  few 
pencil  "  scratches  "  ,on  the  back  of  a  letter  sufficed  as  notes  for  the  production  of  a 
picture,  which  picture  was  also  a  portrait.  He  had  been  astonished  when,  afterwards 
— seeing  the  work  produced,  remembering  the  occasion  on  which  the  first  "  sketch  " 
was  made,  and  the  very  brief  period  of  time  expended  iu  gathering  the  materials — he 
recognised  the  accuracy  of  the  details,  even  to  the  clouds  that  were  at  the  moment 
above  the  object. 

Yes,  that  was  indeed  a  mighty  genius  in  Art,  which,  on  the  23rd  of  April,  1775, 
was  given  to  earth  in  the  poor  and  narrow  street  called  "Maiden  Lane,"  and  was 
taken  from  earth  on  the  19th  of  December,  1851. 

Benjamin  Bobekt  Haydon. — In  the  course  of  my  Memory  of  Miss  Mitford  I  ha  I 
occasion  to  refer  to  one  of  the  most  cherished  of  her  friends,  the  painter  Haydon.  It 
is  impossible  to  write  of  that  remarkable  man  without  pain— not  alone  with  reference 
to  his  self-inflicted  death,  but  to  his  whole  career  in  Art.  It  is  a  mournful  story  from 
beginning  to  end. 

I  knew  him  intimately,  and  had  frequent  correspondence  with  him.  Personally, 
he  was  much  indebted  to  Nature  ;  tall,  of  fine  figure ;  limbs  finely  set  and  well 
modelled,  with  a  handsome  yet  manly  face,  admirably  outlined  ;  fresh-coloured  ;  eyes 
clear,  yet  searching ;  a  high,  intellectual  forehead,  evidencing  large  capacity ;  and 


BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON.  469 

manners  imposing  and  attractive,  rather  than  easy  and  becoming  :  exacting,  certainly, 
with  palpable  evidence  of  self-esteem  rather  than  of  self-respect.  An  overweening 
confidence  in  his  own  powers,  and  a  surprise — generally  natural,  but  sometimes 
forced — that  all  mankind  did  not  think  of  him  as  he  thought  of  himself,  was  the 
great  stumbling-block  in  his  way  from  the  commencement  to  the  close  of  his  singular 
career.  I  remember  saying  to  him,  "  Hay  don,  if  you  had  had  a  little  less  vanity  and 
a  little  more  pride,  you  would  have  been  the  great  man  of  your  age."  *  Pride  he 
had  none  ;  that  is  to  say,  the  pride  that  makes  a  mean  action  impossible.  So  early 
as  1812  he  speaks  without  a  blush  of  his  having  concluded  his  picture  of  Macbeth 
"  wholly  by  dint  of  borrowing  from  my  friends  ;  "  and  in  1814  he  records  that 
Benjamin  West  sent  him  a  draft,  which  "  he  boped  would  be  adequate  to  keep  the 
wolf  from  his  door."  Twenty  years  later  he  writes  this  sad  passage  :  "  Excessively 
distressed  ;  no  employment  but  my  landlord's  charity."  Later  still  he  talks  of  his 
"  shocking  necessities  and  want  of  money  perpetually  bhghting  his  energies  ;  "  and 
in  1832,  Sir  Bobert  Peel — ever  patient  with  men  in  adversity — he  had  at  length  quite 
worn  out.  It  must  have  been  heavy  pressure  which,  in  that  year,  forced  from  the 
great  statesman  this  letter: — "I  think  it  hard  that  because  I  have  manifested  a 
desire  to  assist  you  in  your  former  difficulties,  I  should  be  exposed  to  the  incessant 
applications  I  have  since  received  from  you."  Of  vanity  he  had  much.  He  says  of 
himself  that  he  "  was  always  panting  for  distinction,  even  at  a  funeral,"  and  felt 
angry  when  at  that  of  Opie — he  was  not  in  the  first  coach.  Alas,  how  often  was  he 
compelled  with  shame  to  take  the  lower  room  !  His  vanity  was  even  tickled  when, 
on  landing  at  Ostend,  the  commissionnaire  thundered  out  his  name  ;  he  "landed  as 
if  under  a  salute  from  the  batteries." 

But  his  vanity  ever  kept  him  from  attributing  neglect  to  want  of  desert.  His 
continual  cry  was,  "I  suffer  this  for  the  cause  of  High  Art  in  England."  When  one 
of  his  pictures  was  purchased  to  go  to  America,  he  exclaims,  "  What  a  disgrace  to 
the  aristocracy  !  " 

Yet  few  artists  of  any  age  had  less  right  to  complain  of  want  of  sympathy  or  lack 
of  patronage.  Sir  Eobert  Peel  had  repeatedly  opened  to  him  his  purse ;  Thomas 
Hope  sent  him  two  hundred  pounds  when  he  was  ill,  and  insisted  that  "  it  should  not 
be  considered  a  debt."  Even  gentle  Talfourd,  when  struggling  onward  to  the  Bench, 
often  lent  him  money.  Indeed,  there  were  few  with  whom  he  came  in  contact  who 
had  not,  at  some  time  or  other,  given  him  aid — down  to  his  "  butterman,"  Webb, 
who  in  early  life  had  studied  Art ;  to  whom  Haydon  said,  "  Webb,  when  you  were  a 
poor  youth  I  gave  my  time  to  you  for  nothing."  "  You  did."  "  I  want  ten  pounds." 
"You  shall  have  it,  Mr.  Haydon." 

And  of  patrons — purchasers  of  his  pictures,  that  is  to  say— there  was  no  lack. 
At  a  period  when  high  Art  was  hardly  recognised  in  England,  and  high-souled  Hilton 
was  vainly  hoping  for  a  commission,  Haydon  could  sell  his  pictures ;  did  sell  very 
many,  and  at  large  prices,  all  things  considered. 


»  There  is  a  postscript  to  one  of  his  letters  to  me,  "  So  you  admit,  if  it  were  not  for  my  vanity,  I  should  be  a 
great  man  1     DeUghtful !     What  more  could  you  say  of  Alexander  or  Napoleon  ? 


470  MEMORIES. 

He  could  not  be  described  as  an  "unsuccessful"  man  at  any  period  of  his  life. 
And  if  fame,  the  great  prompter  to,  and  recompense  of,  high  efforts,  be  an  object 
worthy  of  labour,  surely  Haydon  had  a  larger  share  of  it  than  had  any  painter  of  his 
age.  Latterly,  indeed,  it  had  degenerated  into  notoriety,  and  he  was  unable  to  dis- 
tinguish the  difference  ;  but  no  artist  had  been  more  talked  about,  more  often  quoted, 
more  frequently  accepted  and  appealed  to  as  authority;  more  continually  lauded 
in  the  public  organs  in  which  the  public  have  faith.  As  a  lecturer  he  was  not  impres- 
sive, although  he  had  frequent  engagements  in  various  parts  of  England.  I  rarely 
heard  him  without  leaving  dissatisfied ;  his  aim  was  to  intrude  his  own  views  rather 
than  to  communicate  knowledge  ;  he  was  eager,  loud,  fierce ;  now  and  then  stretching 
himself  over  the  reading-desk  as  if  he  meant  to  strike  some  one.* 

During  his  warfare — for  such  was  his  life — he  found  by  his  side,  in  the  arena, 
Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Shelley,  Lamb,  Hazlitt,  Godwin,  and  Keats.  Wordsworth 
addressed  to  him  a  sonnet, — 

"  High  is  our  calling-,  peiend  ;" 

and  among  other  honours  accorded  to  him  was  the  freedom  of  his  native  town. 

In  his  domestic  relations  he  was  happy.  Of  his  wife,  Talfourd  says,  "  She  was  a 
woman  of  great  beauty,  and  equal  discretion,  who,  by  gentle  temper  and  serener 
wisdom  than  his  own,  had  assisted  and  soothed  him  in  all  his  anxieties  and  griefs, 
and  whose  image  was  so  identified  in  his  mind  with  the  beautiful  as  to  impress  its 
character  on  all  the  forms  of  female  loveliness  he  has  created."  Moreover,  he  had 
always  cherished  a  beHef  in  the  religion  of  our  Church,  and  avowed  it  among  scoffing 
unbelievers  ;  and  that  belief  he  asserted  even  in  the  wild  fragments  he  penned  in  his 
last  troubled  hour.  No  one  of  his  many  friends  anticipated  so  terrible  a  catastrophe, 
so  appalling  a  close  to  such  a  life — "the  bitter  disappointment  which  brought  him 
through  distraction  to  the  grave."     Alas  !  it  was  by  his  own  hand  he  died. 

"  Yes,  at  the  outset  of  life,  all  was  auspicious  for  Benjamin  Robert  Haydon ; 
during  his  mid-career  he  had  much  to  encourage  and  not  much  to  depress ;  and  in 
his  advanced  age  he  had  by  no  means  entirely  denuded  himself  of  considerate, 
sympathising,  and  helping  friends."  f 

In  the  sixty-first  year  of  his  age  he  died,  "after  twenty-four  years  of  studies, 
strivings,  conflicts,  successes,  imprisonments,  appeals  to  ministers,  to  Parliament,  to 
patrons,  to  the  pubhc,  self-illusions,  and  disappointments." 

"  The  blandishments  of  life"  were  not  all  gone ;  perhaps  he  had  as  many  then  as 
at  any  time  of  his  chequered  career ;  but  the  consciousness  of  power  had,  in  a  great 
measure,  passed  away.  He  felt  what  others  knew  —  that,  though  hardly  yet  a 
"  veteran,"  he  was  "  superfluous  on  the  stage." 


_  *  "He  was  a  most  brimant  talker -racy^  bold,  original,  and  vigorous.  ...  A  vanity  that  amounted  to  self- 
idolatry,  and  a  temble  carelessness,  unjustifiable  m  many  matters,  degraded  his  mind,  and  even  impaired  his 
talent  in  Art." — Miss  Mitfobd.  '^ 

+  Even  Sir  Robert  Peel  was  not  utterly  worn  out,  for  he  sent  the  unhappy  painter  fifty  pounds  only  three  davs 
before  his  death,  and  it  was  not  all  consumed  when  he  died.  It  is  a  ray  of  light  upon  thit  dismal  scene  to  know 
that  Sir  Robert  Peel  had  done  so  much  to  avert  a  calamity  fi-om  a  man  of  genius  and  his  Iwmestead  •  but  it  is  bv 
no  means  the  only  one  that  might  be  placed  to  the  account  of  that  great  and  good  statesman  by  the  recording 


BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HA  YD  ON.  471 


If  lie  had  but  taken  Wilkie's  advice — given  in  1812 — "  to  be  a  reformer  with  his 
pencil,  but  not  with  his  pen  ; "  if  even  at  an  earher  period,  in  1807,  he  had  shrunk 

appalled  from,  instead  of  gloried  in,  the  future  he  draws  of  himself "Energetic, 

fiercely  ambitious,  full  of  grand  and  romantic  hopes,  believing  the  world  too  Hltle  for 
his  hopes,  trusting  all,  fearing  none,  and  pouring  forth  his  thoughts  in  vigorous 
language  "—how  different  would  have  been  the  fate  of  Benjamin  Robert  Hay  don, 
how  rich  would  have  been  the  legacy  he  might  have  bequeathed  to  mankind  ! 

He  was  born  at  Plymouth  in  1786,  and  in  May,  1804,  embarked  on  the  voyage 
of  life  in  London.  Very  soon  afterwards  he  described  himself  as  "  self-sacrificed  for 
a  great  principle,"  but  he  was  "  iron-minded,  and  bent  not."  That  was  the  demon 
that  haunted  him  all  his  life.  His  "  hopeless  ambition  created  his  endless  agonies." 
"  This  is  the  life  of  high  Art  in  England  !  "  "  This  is  historical  painting  in 
England  !  "  Such  were  his  frequent  exclamations,  in  words  and  in  letters,  when 
any  vexation  or  disappointment  chanced  to  him. 

I  had  frequent  discussions  with  Haydon,  and  many  letters  from  him — sometimes 
they  were  painful  —  concerning  the  Royal  Academy.  He  aimed  to  induce  me— I 
might  almost  say  to  compel  me — into  a  course  of  irrational  and  unjustifiable  hostility 
as  regards  that  body,  which,  whatever  be  its  shortcomings  (and  they  are  many), 
undoubtedly  upholds  the  position  of  Art  in  England,  and  gives  to  artists  the  rank  of 
a  profession.  His  hostility  amounted  almost  to  insanity.  It  was  idle  my  seeking  to 
point  out  to  him  that  I  was  neither  the  advocate  nor  the  apologist  of  the  Academy 
— that  I  had  commented  so  freely  on  its  errors  of  omission  and  of  commission  as  to 
make  its  members,  individually  and  collectively,  hostile  to  the  journal  I  conducted. 
He  would  hear  no  argument  for  the  defence,  refused  to  accord  to  it  any  good 
thing,  and  became  furious  at  the  bare  attempt  to  excuse,  or  account  for,  its  alleged 
transgressions.'''' 

In  his  own  view  a  mission  was  confided  to  him  —  to  create  historical  Ait  in 
England.  Alter  he  had  been  thrice  refused  when  he  sought  admission  to  the  Royal 
Academy,  despair  took  the  form  of  vengeance,  and  thenceforward  he  was  implacable 
and  insane  in  all  that  regarded  all  academies — that  of  England  above  them  all.  He 
became  utterly  absorbed  in  self — was  incessantly  proclaiming  himself  a  martyr ;  he 
was  not  merely  the  "  Sir  Oracle,"  his  motto  was  Eijo  et  ars  men,  from  the  beginoing 
of  his  career  to  the  close  of  it.f 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  his  disappointment  at  receiving  no  prize  when  the 


*  Haydon's  leading  fancy  was  that  it  was  his  mission  to  found  "  a  school,"  and  he  was  continually  boasting  of 
the  pupils  he  had  created.  I  have  five  of  his  letters  in  which  he  refers  to  them— Eastlake,  Landseer,  Lance,  and 
Harvey  principally.  It  is  not  a  little  strange  that  neither  of  them  worked  out  any  of  the  principles  of  his  teacher. 
The  style  of  Landseer  is  well  known  (I  believe,  however,  he  studied  very  little  imder  Haydon)  ;  that  of  Eastlake  is 
the  very  opposite  of  his  master,  if  so  Haydon  can  be  called ;  Lance  became  a  painter  of  still  life ;  and  William 
Harvey  a  draughtsman  on  wood. 

t  Of  the  VAIN  MAN  thus  wi'ote  Robert  Hall  in  his  grand  sermon  on  "Modern  Infidelity."  It  may  be  a  lesson 
and  a  warning  to  many  : — "  It  forms  the  heart  to  such  a  profound  indiiference  to  the  welfare  of  others,  that  what- 
ever appearances  he  may  assume,  or  however  wide  the  cii'cle  of  his  seeming  virtues  may  extend,  you  wiU  infallibly 
find  the  vain  man  is  his  own  centre.  Attention  only  to  himself,  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  his  own  perfec- 
tions, instead  of  feeling  tenderness  for  his  fellow-creatuies— as  members  of  the  same  family,  as  beings  with  whom 
he  is  appointed  to  act,  to  suffer,  and  to  sympathise— he  considers  life  as  a  stage,  on  which  he  is  performing  a  part, 
and  mankind  in  no  other  light  than  spectators.  Whether  he  smiles  or  frowns,  whether  his  path  is  adorned  with  the 
rays  of  beneficence,  or  his  steps  are  dyed  in  blood,  an  attention  to  self  is  the  spring  of  every  movement,  and  the 
motive  to  which  every  action  is  referred." 


472  MEMORIES. 

great  Exhibition  of  Cartoons  took  place  at  Westminster  Hall,  in  the  autumn  of  1842, 
was  the  drop  that  over-filled  his  cup  :  *  it  overflowed  when,  soon  afterwards,  he 
exhibited  at  the  Egyptian  Hall  his  pictures  of  "  Aristides  "  and  the  "Burning  of 
Eome  " — appealing  from  the  Commissioners  to  the  public,  and  finding  that,  though 
no  more  than  one  hundred  and  thirty-three  persons  visited  them  in  a  week,  during 
the  same  six  days  "  Tom  Thumb,"  who  was  showing  himself  in  the  same  building, 
received  the  shillings  of  twelve  thousand  persons  ! 

Yes,  it  is  depressing  and  humiliating  to  those  who  are  of  his  order — toilers  in  the 
labour-mart  of  life — to  contemplate  the  career  of  a  man  of  genius  perpetually  degraded 
by  absence  of  self-respect. 

His  was  indeed  a  melancholy  close  to  a  sad  life — sad,  although  there  was  no 
reason  why  it  should  have  been  so  :  it  might  have  been,  and  ought  to  have  been, 
prosperous,  happy,  and  useful. 

It  is  the  more  lamentable  to  review  this  life,  because  Haydon  professed  to  be 
guided  by  trust  in  Providence — that  ever  fits  the  back  to  the  burden — and  probably 
persuaded  himself  that  he  was  so.  In  his  Life  by  Tom  Taylor — a  just  and  yet  a 
•generous  book,  in  which  a  wise  as  well  as  a  warning  view  is  taken  of  the  artist's 
career  —  repeated  quotations  are  made  from  his  "  prayers."  They  were,  as  his 
biographer  writes,  constant  "  demands  for  success  and  personal  distinction  " — "  for 
glories  and  triumphs  "—in  a  word,  for  himself:  "  begging  letters,  in  fact,  despatched 
to  the  Almighty  !  " 

It  was  prayer  without  trust- — an  appeal  for  help  on  the  ground  of  deserving — a 
continual  asking  God  for  assistance  as  a  right. 

The  life  of  Haydon  need  not,  therefore,  alarm  any  aspirant  for  fame  in  Art— 
any  struggler  amid  the  crowd  that  presses  upward  to  the  temple  of  fame — any  artist 
who  is  doomed  to  bear  the  "  contumely  "  of  either  brother  or  patron — who  is  willing 
to  "labour  and  to  wait." 

I  may  have  treated  the  character  of  Haydon  with  less  mercy  than  justice.  My 
readers  will  "hear  me  speak  his  good  now."  He  assiduously,  continuously,  and 
with  all  his  heart,  laboured  to  promote  the  cause  of  "High  Art"  in  England — : 
to  elevate  his  profession — and  to  give  it  power  as  a  source  of  enlightenment, 
instruction,  and  enjoyment.  From  the  first  he  saw  the  inestimable  value  of  "  the 
Elgin  marbles,"  and  strongly  advocated  their  acquisition  by  the  Nation ;  and  he 
earnestly  strove  to  introduce  Art  into  the  Provinces — then  altogether  without  it — 
as  a  source  of  education,  so  as  to  augment  by  its  aid  the  mercantile  value  of  Art- 
manufacture. 

In  private  life  he  was  ever  thoroughly  right — as  regards  all  the  domestic  duties 
and  virtues.  Moreover,  there  was  no  falsehood  in  him ;  what  he  meant  he  said  ; 
what  he  intended  to  do  he  did.  His  nature,  indeed,  was  transparent ;  and  he  was 
incapable  of  a  lie,  or  the  semblance  of  it. 

'  In  a  letter  to  me,  dated  August  1, 1843,  he  thus  writes  : — "  I  have  been  treated  as  all  beginners  of  revolutions 
always  are  :  this  is  the  third  attempt  to  burke  me  :  first  by  the  Academy  of  1810,  then  by  the  Gj,lleiy,  1812,  and 
lastly  by  the  Commission,  1843.  Will  they  succeed  1  I  defy  them  ail.  I  am  in  the  hearts  of  the  people,  out  o  f 
which  they  nor  the  Coiu't  cannot  drive  me." 


SAMUEL   PROUT.  473 


Samuel  Pkotjt. — Soon  after  Haydon's  death  I  had  this  letter  from  his  friend  and 
mine — excellent  Samuel  Prout — truly  a  great  artist,  and  as  truly  a  good  man  : — 

"  I  was  with  him  a  few  days  previous  to  his  death  ;  and  I  believe  the  last  time  he  took  no  the 
port-crayon  was  to  make  a  profile  drawing  of  himself,  which  he  sent  to  his  oldest  friend,  S.  Front, 
as  a  remembrance  of  a  friendship  of  fifty-three  years  :  under  the  portrait  were  two  Greek  words, 
meaning,  I  understand,  meditating  great  tliinga.  It  is  a  marvellous  head — poor  dear  Haydon  !  In 
our  last  conversation — little  did  I  think  it  would  be  the  last — he  boasted  of  his  powers  of  resistance 
— his  delight  and  happiness  to  face  and  fight  a  foe ;  hut  the  conflict  came,  the  tempest  drew  near, 
and  oh,  fearful  result!" 

Dear,  good,  kind,  generous,  estimable  Samuel  Prout !  I  love  to  recall  a  Memory 
so  pleasant  and  so  hopeful.  I  never  knew  a  worthier  or  a  better  man.  He  was  a 
little  man,  of  sweet,  almost  womanly-gentle  countenance ;  who  loved  to  gossip  of 
familiar  places  and  familiar  faces,  and  had  ever  a  kindly  greeting  for  the  old  or  the 
young.  It  was  impossible  to  know  him  without  loving  him :  his  nature  was  essen- 
tially generous  ;  benevolence  was  paramount  in  his  heart  and  mind  ;  he  had  tender- 
ness for  every  living  thing.  Long-continued  pain,  amounting  at  times  to  agony,  never 
wore  out  his  patience,  never  lessened  his  trust  in  God  ;  and  he  might  have  said  what 
Coleridge  said  as  the  concluding  passage  of  his  last  Will  and  Testament : — 

"  His  Staff  and  His  Eod  alike  comfort  me." 

No  member  of  the  profession  ever  lived  to  be  more  thoroughly  respected — I  may 
add,  beloved — -by  his  brother-artists ;  no  man  ever  gave  more  unquestionable 
evidence  of  a  gentle  and  generous  spirit,  or  more  truly  deserved  the  esteem  in  which 
he  was  universally  held.  His  always  delicate  health,  instead  of,  as  it  often  does, 
souring  the  temper,  made  him  more  considerate  and  thoughtful  of  the  trials  and 
troubles  of  others.  Ever  ready  to  assist  the  young  by  the  counsels  of  experience, 
he  was  a  fine  example  of  upright  principles  and  unwearied  industry,  combined  with 
suavity  of  manners,  and  those  endearing  attributes  of  character  which  blend  with 
admiration  of  the  artist  affection  for  the  man. 

In  a  letter  I  received  from  him  in  the  spring  of  1851,  a  year  before  his  death, 
he  wrote — 

"  I  cannot  be  sufficiently  thankful  that  warm  weather  promises  a  new  creation.  I  am  at  an 
age,  with  many  infirmities,  when  sunshine  and  refreshing  showers  are  required  to  keep  alive  the 
spirit  of  life  and  enjoyment :  activity  and  vigour  are  worn  out,  and,  although  still  creeping  on, 
the  dark  cloud  is  apparently  not  very  distant." 

Frequently  during  the  latter  years  of  his  life  I  made  my  way,  always  welcome, 
into  his  modest  studio,  where  I  found  him  at  his  easel  throwing  his  rich  and  beautiful 
colouring  over  some  old  palace  of  Venice,  or  time-worn  cathedral  of  Flanders ;  and 
though  suffering  much  from  pain  and  weakness,  ever  cheerful,  ever  thankful  that  he 
had  still  strength  sufficient  to  carry  on  his  work.  It  was  rarely  he  could  begin  his 
labours  before  the  middle  of  the  day,  when,  if  tolerably  free  from  pain,  he  would 
continue  to  paint  until  the  night  was  advanced.  A  finer  example  of  meekness, 
gentleness,  and  patience  I  never  knew,  nor  any  one  to  whom  the  epithet  "  a  sincere 
Christian  "  might  with  greater  truth  be  applied  : — 

"  Death  never  comes  amiss  to  Mm  prepared." 


Fame  was  his  reward — iu  so  far  as  picture-buyers  are  concerned — after  his  death, 
but  not  while  he  lived.  I  verily  believe  that  if  the  artist  could  have  been  at  Christie's 
when  a  picture  of  his  painting  sold  for  fourteen  hundred  pounds  for  which  he  had 
received  sixty  pounds,  no  one  present  would  have  been  half  as  much  astonished  as 
the  modest  painter  himself.  He  never  valued  any  work  of  his  beyond  the  sum  I 
have  named  ;   and  six  pounds  was  his  usual  price  for  one  of  his  smaller  drawings. 

Poor  Haydon  !  He  might  have  learned  a  lesson  of  true  piety  and  confiding 
resignation  from  his  friend,  fellow-countryman,*  and  brother-worker,  excellent 
Samuel  Prout ;   so,  indeed,  he  might  from  the  example  of  another  of  his  friends — 

William  Hilton. — The  first  historical  painter  of  the  age — for  so  I,  at  least, 
regard  William  Hilton — seemed  to  me  always  sorrowful  and  sad ;  certainly  there 
could  have  been  nothing  buoyant,  and  little  that  was  hopeful  in  his  nature  ;  he  had 
a  melancholy  expression ;  spoke  slowly,  and  apparently  with  reluctance.  In  person 
he  was  tall  and  slight,  with  little  or  no  energy,  but  he  was  in  ill-health  all  his  life, 
and  he  had  to  endure  that  severest  of  all  mental  trials — a  consciousness  of  power  of 
which  there  was  no  appreciation.  No  doubt  he  mourned  that  affliction  in  secret ; 
but  he  was  no  grumbler  ;  the  world  heard  no  wail  from  his  lips  when  he  saw 
meaner  spirits  passing  him  on  the  road  to  fame — helping  hands  to  sustain  and  guide 
them.  Rarely  or  never  did  a  patron  smile  on  him.  I  beHeve  I  am  correct  in  saying 
he  was  not  cheered  by  "a  commission  "  all  his  life  ;  and  it  was  perhaps  a  dismal 
necessity  that  made  welcome  to  him  the  poor  position,  with  its  miserable  pittance  of 
payment,  as  Keeper  of  the  Royal  Academy,  in  which  he  followed  Fuseli  in  1827,  and 
which  he  held  until  1836,  when  death  had  warned  him  that  further  labour,  rewarded 
or  unrewarded,  was  not  for  him.  He  died  in  1839.  How  different  would  have  been 
the  destiny  of  William  Hilton  had  he  flourished  in  the  middle  instead  of  at  the 
beginning  of  the  19th  century  !  f 

David  Roberts.- — An  admirable  artist  and  most  estimable  man  left  earth  when 
David  Roberts  died.  There  has  been  no  one  to  supply  the  place  he  vacated.  In  his 
particular  style  of  Art,  indeed,  he  stood  alone,  and  has  had  no  successor.  I  knew 
him  soon  after  he  commenced  his  life  in  London — as  a  scene-painter ;  but  even  then 
it  was  easy  to  anticipate  the  proud  eminence  he  was  destined  to  reach.  He  was  not 
more  modest  at  the  commencement,  than  he  was  at  the  close,  of  his  career.  Simple, 
unpretending,  and  apparently  indifferent  to  celebrity,  he  courted  society  very  little ; 
was  most  at  home  when  before  his  easel ;  and  accepted  the  homage  of  connoisseurs 
■ — with  satisfaction  no  doubt,  but  without  an  approach  to  arrogance  or  self-applause. 
He  was  of  a  nature  genial  and  kindly  ;  prudent  and  cautious,  as  most  of  his  country- 


*  Prout  was  bom  at  Plymouth  in  1784,  and  died  at  Denmark  Hill  in  February,  1852. 

+  One  of  the  best,  if  not  the  best,  of  his  pictures,  now  in  the  Vernon  Gallery,  "  jdldith  flndino'  the  Bodv  of 
Harold,"  was  seen  for  a  season  in  the  Great  Room  of  the  lioyal  Academy  :  no  one  ever  asked  its^price  •  it  was 
returned  to  him.  So  large  a  picture  was  an  inconvenience  to  him ;  so  it  was  cut  fi-om  the  frame  rolled  ud  and 
placed  away  in  a  cellar.  I  heard  of  the  circumstance,  mentioned  it  to  Mr.  Vernon,  and  it  was  purchased  bv  that 
gentleman  for  the  sum  of  two  hundred  pounds.    It  would  now  bring  two  thousand  pounds  at  least. 


DAVID  ROBERTS.  475 


men  are,  but  ever  ready  to  aid  less  fortunate  brethren,  and  one  of  the  most  active 
promoters  and  sustainers  of  the  Artists'  General  Benevolent  Institution.* 

As  a  young  man  he  had  a  certain  gauche  exterior.  His  face  was  round,  and  not 
peculiarly  expressive  :  his  manner  became  much  more  refined  as  he  grew  older  and 
mixed  in  society  ;  yet  it  was  always  comparatively  rough.  It  bespoke  sincerity, 
however,  and  thorough  honesty.  One  would  have  instinctively  trusted  him  either  in 
Art  or  business  without  risk  of  vexation  or  disappointment,  f 

He  was  born  at  Stockbridge,  near  Edinburgh,  in  1796,  and  was  apprenticed  to  a 
house-painter,  to  whom  he  served  a  weary  seven  years.  When  released  from  his 
trammels,  he  became  a  scene-painter  in  Glasgow  and  Edinburgh,  and  in  1821  found 
himself  in  London,  under  an  agreement  with  Elliston  of  Drury  Lane.  Here,  in 
companionship  with  his  friend  Stanfield,  were  painted  many  grand  and  beautiful 
works,  which  unhappily  were  evanescent  as  the  clouds — they  served  their  purpose 
and  were  obliterated.  They  did  their  work,  however ;  giving  to  the  public  that 
taste  for  excellence  which  has  ever  since  kept  possession  of  the  stage.  The  Society 
of  British  Artists  was  formed  in  1824,  and  Roberts  was  one  of  its  first  members. 
In  1833  he  was  elected  an  Associate  of  the  Royal  Academy,  and  a  Member  in  18-41. 

From  that  day  to  the  last  of  his  life  he  annually  produced  and  exhibited  many 
pictures  that  manifested  high  genius,  and  he  holds  rank  among  the  very  foremost 
artists  of  his  country.  They  adorn  every  leading  collection  in  the  kingdom,  and 
are  eagerly  sought  for  whenever  circumstances  bring  them  into  what  is  called  '■  the 
market." 

His  grand  work,  "  The  Holy  Land,"  is  however,  his  great  achievement.  The 
"  track"  of  our  Lord  and  his  apostles  has  been  made  familiar  to  us  of  late  years  by 
photography  ;  but  it  was  not  so  in  1839,  when  the  fruits  of  the  artist's  tour  were 
circulated  by  the  enterprise  and  energy  of  Alderman  Moon  (the  hberal  publisher  of 
engravings,  whose  loss  was  a  heavy  loss  to  Art),|  in  a  series  of  magnificent  volumes 
that  have  never  been  surpassed  in  any  age  or  country.  He  illustrated  other  books, 
and  was  a  persistent  and  enterprising  traveller  in  many  lands,  more  especially,  Spain, 
Venice,  Rome  ;  less  fertile  of  fancy,  perhaps,  than  some  of  his  compeers,  but  giving 
poetry  to  fact,  making  pictures  teachers,  and  combining  delight  with  information. 

He  was  proud  of  his  country,  and  his  country  was  proud  of  him.  In  1858  the 
freedom  of  his  native  city  was  presented  to  him;  and  he  had  other  "honours" 
before  his  death.  That  did  not  take  place  until  the  public  had  fully  estimated  his 
genius,  and  collectors  had  ascertained  the  value  of  his  works.  He  received  large 
sums  for  his  later  productions :  more  fortunate  than  most  of  his  compeers,  who  had 


*  That  admirable  Institution  does  an  enormous  amount  of  good-relieving,  every  year,  many  widows  and 
orphans  of  artists  from  utter  destitution.  The  Artists'  Benevolent  Institution  is,  rather  a  benefit  society,  but  has 
also  a  General  Benevolent  branch.  It  is  not  a  little  strange  that  dm-mg  the  fifty  or  sixty  years  that  have  passed 
since  their  foundation  neither  of  them  has  ever  obtained  a  single  legacy,  although  many  artists  and  Art-lovers  have 
been  rich,  and  some  of  them  have  left  bequests  to  other  chanties.  .,-,,.1,^x4.,^.^  t-i,     -u  t 

t  Evidence  of  his  great  industiy,  as  well  as  practical  habits,  is  furmshed  by  the  fact,  that  among  other  bequests 
of  his  labour  (and  he  (fied  rich)  was  a  journal,  in  which  he  had  noted  every  picture  he  pamted,  and  every  journey 
he  made  in  search  of  Art— almost  every  incident  in  his  useful  and  busy  iiie. 

iBritish  Art  owts  to  sS  FranciJGraham  Moon,  Bart.,  a  debt  of  grati  ude  As  a  pub  isher  of  engravings 
he  exercised  immense  influence  on  Art;  his  transactions  were  always  not  only  considerate,  but  generous  and 
libeml ;  ^d  the  leading  painters  of  the  period  were  proud  to  class  themselves  among  his  personal  friends. 


476  MEMORIES. 

no   advantage   from    the    prodigious   "  biddings "   at   Christie's,   when    works   were 
"  knocked  down  "  to  covetous  acquirers  at  any  price. 

Roberts  died  suddenly,  in  1865,  and  was  buried  in  the  cemetery  at  Norwood. 

John  Maktin  was  never  a  Member  of  the  Royal  Academy  ;  why,  it  is  hard  to 
say,  for  he  was  certainly  a  man  of  genius,  albeit  his  productions  may  have  been 
objectionable,  tried  by  the  sternest  rules  of  Art.  Few  artists  of  his  age  were  more 
popular.  His  works  were  always  wildly  imaginative,  wayward,  erratic  ;  but  they 
were  abundantly  rich  in  fancy,  gorgeous  in  creative  display,  "  bodying  forth  the 
forms  of  things  unknown.''  But,  as  it  will  ever  be  with  that  which  is  not  based  on 
nature,  they  were  for  an  age  only,  and  not  for  all  time.  We  rarely  now  see  any  of 
the  many  engravings  from  his  pictures.  He  used  the  burin,  or  rather  the  mezzotinto- 
scraper,  himself ;  and,  I  beheve,  of  all  his  illustrations  to  Milton  he  was  his  own 
engraver — sometimes  working  without  any  guiding  picture  or  sketch.  I  have  seen 
him  so  at  work  often.  He  was  a  handsome  man  ;  short  of  stature,  but  graceful  and 
attractive  in  person ;  with  indications,  both  in  his  manner  and  countenance,  of  that 
mental  irritability  which  is  nearly  allied  to  insanity.  His  brother,  it  will  be  remem- 
bered, set  fire  to  York  Minster,  and  died  in  an  insane  asylum.  The  painter,  Martin, 
was  one  of  the  few  who  successfully  strove  to  promote  intercourse  between  artists 
and  men  of  letters  at  his  house  at  Alsop  Terrace,  Marylebone  Road.  He  had 
"  Evenings  "  weekly,  when  he  brought  together  many  of  the  more  distinguished  men 
and  women  of  his  time  in  Literature,  Art,  and  Science.  They  were  not  mere  con- 
versazioni ;  each  of  his  guests  sought  to  give  intellectual  character  to  the  occasion. 
There  I  first  saw  Professor  Wheatstone's  earliest  inspiration,  which  subsequently 
became  the  Electric  Telegraph — more  wonderful  than  Ariel's  wand,  for  it  "  puts  a 
girdle  round  about  the  earth  in  forty  "  seconds  ;  there  I  first  stared  in  wonder  at 
Elliotson's  mesmeric  revelations  ;  there,  indeed,  many  marvellous  matters  that  have 
since  startled  the  world  were  in  embryo,  waiting  the  call  of  Time,  Yes,  those 
evenings  were  memorable,  and  are  woi'thy  to  be  remembered.  John  Martin  has  had 
no  emulator  in  his  laudable  efi"orts  to  make  the  author  aid  the  artist,  the  artist  aid  the 
author,  and  to  bring  Science  as  an  assistant  to  both. 

Martin,  like  so  many  other  artists,  had  a  terrible  wrestle  with  adversity  on  his 
way  to  fame.  I  remember  his  telling  me  that  once  he  "owned"  a  shilling;  it  was 
needful  to  hoard  it ;  but  being  very  hungry,  he  entered  a  baker's  shop  to  buy  a  penny 
loaf.  To  his  shame  and  dismay  he  found  the  shilling  was  a  bad  one.  "  So  long 
afterwards,"  added  the  painter,  then  at  the  zenith  of  his  hopes  and  aims,  "  when  I 
had  a  shilling,  I  took  care  to  get  it  changed  into  penny-pieces  !  " 

He  was  born  in  1789  at  Hexham,  near  Newcastle-on-Tyne,  and  died  in  the  Isle 
of  Man,  in  1854. 

Claekson  Stanfield. — Not  many  years  have  passed  since  this  most  admirable 
artist  and  most  excellent  man  was  taken  from  us.  His  memory  is  very  dear  to  all 
with  whom  he  was  associated,  either  nearly  or  remotely — those  who  could  fully 


WILLIAM  MULLER.  477 

estimate  the  high  qualities  of  his  heart  and  mind,  and  those  who,  at  a  distance, 
appreciated  his  genius  and  his  works. 

He  was  born  at  Sunderland  in  1798,  and  died  at  Hampstead  on  the  18th  of  May, 
1867. 

His  birth  in  a  seaport  town  materially  influenced  his  career  in  life  and  in  Art. 
He  was  a  sailor-boy  for  a  time,  and  the  impressions  he  received  in  early  youth  were 
palpable  on  his  canvas  ever  afterwards.  In  1824  his  first  picture  was  exhibited  at 
the  Society  of  British  Artists.  Although,  for  a  time,  circumstances  induced  him  to 
work  as  a  scene-painter — for  then  patrons  were  few,  and  patronage  of  British  Art  '■' 
but  the  shadow  of  a  future — no  long  period  elapsed  before  his  paintings  became 
favourites  ;  and  though  sold  for  shillings  to  those  who  have  since  obtained  for  them 
pounds,  some  of  the  dealers  anticipated  his  worth,  and  two  of  his  pictures,  in  1832, 
made  their  way  into  the  Koyal  Collection — "  Portsmouth  Harbour  "  and  the 
"  Opening  of  New  London  Bridge,"  commissioned  by  the  sailor-king,  William  IV. 
He  had  by  that  time,  however,  found  ready  purchasers,  and  thenceforward  never 
lacked  them. 

When  I  knew  him  first,  h-e  was  a  tall  and  handsome  young  man,  of  agreeable,  yet 
not  of  polished,  manners,  liking  and  seeking  society  of  an  intellectual  character. 
There  was  not  one  of  the  foremost  men  of  the  age  who  did  not  consider  it  a  privilege 
to  know  the  painter.  Few  men  were  more  respected  as  well  as  esteemed  by  a  very 
large  circle ;  and,  from  the  commencement  of  his  career  to  the  close  of  it,  he  was 
popular  in  the  best  sense  of  the  term.  When  I  saw  him  last — it  was  at  the  private 
view  of  the  Royal  Academy  in  1866 — he  was  dropping  gradually  into  the  grave  ;  and 
as  he  leaned  on  my  -arm  down  the  stairease  in  Trafalgar  Square,  there  was  certainty 
that  his  toil  on  earth  was  nearly  done  ;  that  very  soon  he  would  live  only  in  the 
memory  of  those  who  knew  him,  and  by  the  works  that  will  place  his  name  among 
the  very  highest  in  the  records  of  the  Art-history  of  his  time  and  country.  Yet  he 
was  *'  a  fine-looking  "  old  man  up  to  the  last ;  the  expression  of  his  countenance, 
kindly,  gracious,  and  intelligent,  was  in  no  degree  lost,  although  the  fire  had  gone  out 
from  his  eyes,  and  his  hand  shook  as  he  pressed  mine.  On  that  occasion  he  spoke — 
a  subject  I  of  course  did  not  introduce — of  a  time  long  past,  and  of  the  men  we  had 
known  whose  pictures  no  bnger  hung  on  those  walls.  At  parting,  when  I  had  seen 
him  into  his  carriage,  I  had  said,  "  Well,  we  shall  at  all  events  meet  again  next  year, 
if  we  do  not  meet  before,"  I  cannot  easily  forget  his  look  or  his  words,  as  he 
answered,  "■  You  will  not  .see  me  here  again  !  "  He  lived  over  the  next  private  view, 
but  he  was  not  present ;  he  was  setting  his  house  in  order ;  and  although  his  home 
had  ever  been  a  happy  one,  before  the  month  of  May  had  ended  he  had  gone  to  a 
happier  and  a  better. 

I  have  known  few  artists  I  regarded  with  so  much  affection  as  I  did  William 
MuLLEE.  The  world  had  not  quite  admitted  his  claim  to  the  highest  rank  in 
Art  when  he  died  ;  the  pictures  he  was  always  ready  to  dispose  of  for  small  sums, 


In  1832  he  was  elected  Associate  of  the  Royal  Academy,  and,  in  1835,  a  Member. 


478  MEMORIES. 


valuing  them  at  his  own  modest  estimate,  have  since  brought  sums  enormous  by 
comparison :  a  thousand  pounds  may  be  easily  obtained  for  a  picture  he  had  disposed 
of  for  eighty — the  amount  he  generally  required  for  one  of  larger  size,  and  I  believe 
he  never  received  more  than  a  hundred  for  any  one  of  his  works.* 

The  few  facts  of  his  life's  history  are  soon  told.  He  was  born  in  Bristol  in  1812. 
His  father,  a  man  of  sound  learning  and  great  intelligence,  and  universally  respected, 
German  by  birth  and  descent,  was  curator  of  the  Museum  in  that  city.  The  mind 
of  the  son  was  therefore  cultivated  early,  and  he  was  not  an  artist  only  ;  he  had 
large  acquirements  in  science  and  in  letters,  and  was  a  scholar  as  well  as  a  painter. 

When  I  first  became  acquainted  with  him — at  Park  Place,  Bristol — he  was  a 
handsome  lad,  aged  about  sixteen,  singularly  modest  and  unassuming,  yet  not  self- 
distrustful.  I  felt  then  towards  him  the  esteem  and  regard  that  augmented  as  he 
became  a  man,  and  he  was  one  of  the  most  cherished  of  my  friends. 

His  longing  desire  for  knowledge  induced  him  to  travel ;  and  he  travelled  much 
— in  Germany,  France,  Switzerland,  Italy,  and  Egypt ;  enriching  his  sketch-books 
with  subject-matter  for  work;  grounding  himself  on  the  best  models  of  the  old 
masters,  but  more  especially  on  those  which  Nature  everywhere  supplies.  His 
latest  tour  was  with  the  Government  expedition  to  Lycia  :  he  went  out  entirely  at 
his  own  expense — and  that  expense  was  enormous,  in  fitting  out  and  costs  by  the 
way.t 

He  returned  to  England,  however,  to  enjoy  its  fruits.  Alas  !  they  were  bitter  to 
the  taste,  and  poisonous  to  the  constitution :  he  died  under  their  effects. 

In  1845  he  sent  six  pictures  to  the  Koyal  Academy  (he  was,  of  course,  a  candi- 
date for  its  honours).  The  six  were  so  placed  as  to  induce  a  belief  that  there  existed 
a  conspiracy  to  ruin  him  ;  they  were  hung  either  close  to  the  ceiling  or  the  floor. 
Accident  might  have  thus  condemned  one  or  two,  but  it  was  not  attributed  to  chance 
that  they  were  all  marked  with  the  brand.  His  heart  sunk  when  he  saw  them  on 
the  first  Monday  of  May  ;  he  had  disease  of  the  heart  soon  afterwards  ;  and  although 
he  wrestled  with  death  until  the  8th  of  September  of  the  year  following,  on  that  day 
he  died. 

I  am  very  sure  that  if  the  hangers  at  the  Koyal  Academy  in  1845  had  foreseen 
the  consequences  of  their  act,  he  would  have  been  treated  very  difi'erently.  As  it 
was,  however,  they  were  as  much  accessory  to  his  death  as  if  they  had  plunged  a 
knife  into  his  side. 

I  quote  on  this  sad  subject  a  letter  he  wrote  to  me,  dated  the  8th  of  May, 
1845  :— 

"  Despite  all  that  has  been  done  to  cast  an  ohlivion  on  my  efforts  at  the  Academy  this  year, 
success  has  attended  me :  not  alone  in  the  sales  of  the  pictures,  but  by  the  actual  injustice  of  the 


*  In  a  letter  to  me  he  writes,  "  I  sold  my  picture  of  the  Camels  and  Eiver  on  the  first  day  of  the  Royal  Academy 
as  an  Art-Union  prize~£125  ;  the  £25  paid  into  the  Committee."  That  is  to  say,  £100  was  the  price  affixed  to  it 
when  sent  in.  Not  long  ago,  one  of  his  pictures  sold  at  Christie's  for  upwards  of  four  thousand  pounds.  It  is  now 
in  the  coUection  of  Mr.  Bolokow,  M.P.  for  Middlesborough,  who  paid  that  sum  for  it.  It  is  the  "  Chess  Plavers  " 
Muller  received  for  it  probably  £80,  certainly  not  more  than  £100.  ' 

t  Dui-ing  his  travels  he  occasionaUy  sent  me  articles  for  publication  in  the  Art-Jourval  (then  the  Art-  Union) 
His  description  of  a  visit  to  the  wonderful  Mummy  Caves  of  "  Mahabdres  "  he  illustrated  by  a  number  of  sketches 
which  I  engraved.  ' 


JOHN  CONSTABLE.  479 


situation  :  more  than  one  of  our  principal  collectors  have  given  me  commissions.  Among  the 
number  is  Mr.  Vernon  (ever  the  judicious  patron  and  generous  friend  of  talent)  ;  and,  as  one 
friend  writes  me,  the  only  thing  that  surprises  him  is  '  that  they  were  not  hung  upside  down.' 
Such  has  heen  the  reward  I  have  received  for  the  expenditure  of  large  sums,  of  great  labour,  the 
risk  of  health,  breaking  up  for  a  time  a  connection,  the  fatigue  and  exhaustion  of  a  long  journey, 
— such  are  the  rewards  a  protected  body  affords  to  the  young  English  artist.  But  now  we  must 
take  this  as  a  lesson,  and  \iK^%  patience  (I  hate  the  word,  but  I  will  have  it)  ;  and  I  will  pledge  my 
life  that,  instead  of  its  tending  to  do  me  harm,  it  shall  do  me  good.  I  will  study  to  prove  to  the 
world  that,  if  insulted,  I  chu  forgive,  but  that  I  cannot  forget  my  love  of  my  profession.  I  hope 
my  friends  will  view  this  affair  as  I  do,  and  so  quietly  let  it  pass.  In  doing  so  they  will  do  me 
a  great  service ;  for  although  I  have  a  table  covered  with  notes  of  condolence,  I  should  be  sorry 
for  the  opinions  therein  expressed  to  meet  the  eyes  of  the  all-powerful  dispensers  of  young  men's 
destinies." 

As  I  have  intimated,  though  he  bore  up  against  this  terrible  aiSiction,  and  was 
not  disheartened,  the  wound  festered  and  never  closed  ;  gradually,  but  surely,  his 
constitution  grew  weaker  and  weaker  ;  he  never  quite  rallied ;  friends  were,  indeed, 
always  about  him,  loving  and  hopeful;  and  patrons  were  seeking  him  out.  Some 
of  them  found  him  ;  but  another  life  was  near  at  hand.  In  August  I  received  from 
him  a  letter  :  I  rejoice  to  quote  this  passage  : — 

"  I  am  not  one  of  those  weak  persons  who  condemn  medical  aid  :  I  place  my  reliance  on  it  next 
to  the  Almighty;  and  then,  fully  believing  it  to  be  under  His  loving  aid,  I  leave  the  issue  in  His 
hands." 

A  previous  letter  has  this  passage  : — 

"  To  one  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  a  profession  and  a  reputation,  to  have  to  leave  this  world  in 
the  prime  of  life  is  a  melancholy  subject.  But  the  great  question  is,  '  How  is  he  prepared  to  go  ?' 
This,  at  times,  weighs  heavily  on  my  mind." 

I  have  known  few  men  more  perfect.  He  was,  in  all  respects,  worthy ;  in  him 
genius  was  associated  with  modesty,  independence  with  courtesy,  generosity  with 
prudence  ;  his  highly-educated  mind  and  refined  sentiments  never  unfitted  him  for 
mingUng  with  the  rough  and  rugged,  where  was  to  be  found  the  recommendation  of 
talent,  or  the  elements  by  which  to  study  character.  In  all  ways  he  ranked  foremost 
among  those  whose  destiny  it  is  to  exhibit  the  advantage— to  the  person  and  to  the 

^orld of  blending  high  intellect  with  moral  and  social  worth.     A  purer  spirit  never 

passed  from  earth  to  heaven;  his  nature  was  unsullied  by  a  single   blot;   it  was 
entirely  feUcitous  for  good ;  he  left  us  nothing  concerning  him  to  regret  but  his  loss. 

John  Constable— whose  Life  Leslie  wrote— lived  where  artists  then  "  most  did 
congregate  "—in  Charlotte  Street,  Fitzroy  Square ;  where  I  visited  him  often— in 
1829-30  I  was  living  in  the  same  street.  He  was  a  painter  from  his  boyhood ;  yet 
he  was  forty-three  years  old  when  elected  an  Associate  of  the  Eoyal  Academy.  The 
public  seemed  as  reluctant  as  the  Academy  to  appreciate  his  works,  for  he  rarely 
sold  a  picture.  Any  dealer  would  now  give  pounds  for  the  works  which  were  paid 
for  by  shillings.  Yet  there  were  some  by  whom  he  was  understood.  Fuseh  is 
reported  to  have  said  that  his  "  rain-clouds  made  him  call  for  an  umbrella  ;  "  and  a 
French  critic  wrote  that  he  saw  in  Constable's  pictures  the  absolute  dew  on  the  grass. 
He  loved  Nature,  and  painted  her  as  he  loved,  her :  it  was  the  home  scenery  of  his 


native  Suffolk,  thoroughly  English  in  its  simple  and  gracious  beauty.*  "  I  love,"  he 
said,  "  my  stile,  my  stump,  and  my  lane  in  the  village  ;  and  while  I  live  I  shall  never 
cease  to  paint  them." 

He  was  neither  rewarded  nor  appreciated.  The  pictures  now  eagerly  coveted  at 
any  price  few  or  none  cared  to  buy  while  he  lived.  He  astonished  the  circles  of  Art 
by  daring  to  paint  what  he  saw ;  despising  the  hackneyed  harmonies  of  the  palette ; 
relying  only  on  the  concords  of  Nature  with  the  immeasurable  faith  that  yielded 
results  more  nearly  approximating  to  fact  than  the  works  of  any  other  painter  that 
ever  lived. 

He  found  it  difficult  to  live  by  his  art,  perfect  as  it  was.  In  1826,  when  working 
at  his  "Corn-field,"  now  in  the  National  Gallery,  he  wrote  to  a  friend: — "I  am 
much  worn,  having  worked  hard ;  and  have  now  the  consolation  of  knowing  I  must 
work  a  great  deal  harder,  or  go  to  the  workhouse.  I  have  some  commissions,  how- 
ever, and  I  do  hope  to  sell  this  picture."  Again  he  wrote  : — "  The  painter  is  totally 
unpopular,  and  ever  will  be,  on  this  side  of  the  grave  P'  "  His  art,"  he  said,  "  flattered 
nobody  by  imitation,  courted  nobody  by  smoothness,  tickled  nobody  by  its  politeness, 
and  was  without  either  fal-de-lal  or  fiddle-de-dee  !  How,  then,  could  he  hope  to  be 
popular?" 

This  lack  of  popularity  haunted  him  thi'ough  life  ;  but  it  was  an  exaggerated 
ailment.  He  was  appreciated  by  the  few,  although  he  failed  to  obtain  appreciation 
from  the  many.  Could  he  but  have  foreseen  a  day  when  the  leading  connoisseurs  of 
England  competed  at  a  public  sale  until  they  "  ran  up  "  a  picture  of  his  to  £1,700  for 
which  he  had  been  paid  £100  ! 

Essentially  Scottish  in  features,  in  habits,  and  in  tongue  was  the  great  painter. 
Sir  David  Wilkie.  He  never  was  a  man  of  polished  manners,  although  associated 
with  all  the  finer  spirits  of  his  age.  He  was,  to  the  last,  somewhat  awkward  in  gait, 
and  seemingly  embarrassed  by  efi"orts  to  convey  thought.  He  was,  however,  honest, 
earnest,  faithful,  and  true  ;  worthy  the  respect  he  received  universally,  and  the 
affectionate  homage  accorded  to  him  by  all  who  knew  his  worth.  What  a  full  life  it 
was— from  that  day,  in  1805,  when  the  "Village  Eecruit "  was  exposed  in  a  shop- 
window  at  Charing  Cross,  at  the  price  of  six  pounds — when  a  peer  of  the  realm 
was  haggling  with  him  as  to  whether  the  price  of  the  commissioned  picture  of  the 
"  Village  Pohticians  "  was  to  be  fifteen  guineas  or  thirty  pounds— to  that  day  (June 
1st,  1841),  when,  homeward  bound  from  Constantinople,  on  shipboard,  he  rendered 
up  his  soul  to  the  G-od  who  gave  it,  and  was  buried  iu  the  deep  ! 

He  was  born  in  1785,  at  Cults,  in  the  county  of  Fife,  a  parish  of  which  his  father 
was  the  pastor.  In  1806  he  found  himself  in  London ;  and  up  to  a  period  very  near 
that  of  his  death  was  working  to  produce  the  many  marvellous  pictures  that  bear 
his  honoured  name,  and  are  classed  with  the  best  productions  of  the  country  and 
the  age.t 


*  He  was  bom  at  Earl-Bergholt,  Suffolk,  in  1766  ;  and  died,  suddenly,  in  1837. 

+  Although  no  one  wiU  douht  that  Wilkie  studied  Nature  closely,  it  was  not  invariably  so.     I  remember 


I  knew  him  well ;  and,  in  common  with  all  who  had  either  his  acquaintance  or 
his  friendship,  honoured  him  as  an  artist,  and  esteemed  him  as  a  man.  I  cannot 
have  space  to  render  justice  to  his  memory ;  but  those  who  desire  information  as  to 
his  career  in  Art  may  easily  obtain  it. 

I  knew  also  his  countryman.  Sir  William  Allan,  when  he  was  advanced  in  life. 
When  Art  was  a  profitless  calling  in  Scotland  he  went  to  Russia,  and  painted  portraits 
there,  travelling  much  in  countries  that  were  known  in  England  only  by  name.  When 
he  returned  to  his  country  in  1814  it  was  to  find  there  were  no  purchasers  of  pictures 
there— no  employment  for  the  artist.  When  threatened  with  penury,  Scott,  Wilson, 
and  Lockhart  made  a  subscription  to  purchase,  for  the  munificent  sum  of  one  hundred 
guineas,  his  noble  and  beautiful  picture  of  "  Circassian  Captives"  (since  engraved), 
which  had  been  exhibited  at  the  Royal  Academy,  where  no  one  had  asked  i'ts  price! 
Better  fortune,  as  well  as  higher  fame,  at  length  came  to  him ;  he  was  President  of 
the  Royal  Scottish  Academy,  and  died  in  his  studio  (in  1850),  pencil  in  hand,  before 

the  unfinished  picture  that  commemorated  one  of  the  great  glories  of  Scotland the 

Battle  of  Bannockburn.  Mrs.  Gordon  describes  him  as  "  a  man  whose  intelligence, 
power  of  observation,  quaint  humour,  and  gentle  and  agreeable  manners  made  him 
welcome  to  all." 

He  was  a  small  man,  and,  so  to  speak,  "  soHd  ; "  plain  in  person  ;  nearing  old  age 
when  I  knew  him,  but  kindly  and  courteous,  with  a  shrewd  yet  generous  expression 
of  countenance  —  differing  much  externally  from  his  successor,  Sir  John  Watson 
Gordon,  who  was  tall,  solemn,  yet  obviously  of  sound  understanding  and  "  a  manly 
heart." 

I  knew  William  Etty  well — when  he  had  chambers  "  high  up  "  in  Buckingham 
Street,  Adelphi  (the  corner  house,  next  the  river),  and  when  he  was  working  hard 
for  the  fame  that  came  and  brought  "  commissions  " — more  than  enough.  He  was  a 
most  ungainly  man  in  form ;  a  head  too  big  for  a  short  and  stubbed  body,  with  a 
forehead  very  high,  and  an  expression  of  much  benevolence.  In  person  he  was  the 
very  opposite  of  the  Graces  he  so  often  painted.  Although  his  pictures  were  usually 
so  free  in  treatment  as  to  convey  an  idea  that  they  originated  in  sensuality,  nothing 
could  have  been  further  from  the  fact.  He  was  a  man  thoroughly  pure,  of  lofty 
mind,  and  with  a  tender,  almost  womanly  heart,  to  whom  a  coarse  expression  or  a 
libidinous  sentiment  would  have  been  impossible. 

Year  after  year,  in  earlier  life,  he  sought  admission  for  his  pictures  to  the  Royal 
Academy ;  year  after  year  they  were  rejected.  He  hoped  on  and  worked  on,  and  at 
length  succeeded.     Of  that  Academy  he  was  afterwards  one  of  the  most  honoured 


pointing'  out  to  him,  in  his  "  Irish  Whiskey  StUl,"  the  anomaly  of  one  of  the  potteen  distillers  tasting  the  mountain 
dew  out  of  an  uncracked  tumbler ;  and  another  of  the  heroes  of  the  scene  wearing  red-plush  breeches.  I  call  to 
mind  also  another  of  his  pictures,  "  The  Village  Recruit."  A  print  of  it  was  hanging  in  my  room.  I  observed  my 
servant  looking  intently  at  it,  and  asked  her  what  she  thought.  "  Dirty  housemaid,"  was  her  reply.  I  then  sftw 
that  though  the  scene  was  the  interior  of  a  neat  and  well-ordered  cottage,  there  was  a  mop  in  the  corner  that  had 
not  been  "  wrung  out,"  Irom  which  the  water  was  oozing.  I  mentioned  the  cii'cumstance,  and  spoke  of  the  critic 
to  Wilkie.    She  knew  nothing  of  Arti,  but  she  knew  her  own  business. 

I   I 


members.  "Despair  almost  overwhelmed  me,"  he  wrote;  "I  was  ready  to  run 
away.  I  felt  that  I  could  not  get  on.  But  a  voice  within  said,  Persevere.  I  did  so, 
and  at  last  triumphed  ;  but  I  was  nearly  beaten.'" 

He  was  born  at  York  in  1787,  and  there  he  died  on  the  13th  of  November,  1849. 
His  fellow-citizens  have  honoured  him  with  a  tomb  in  the  graveyard  that  surrounds 
the  old  Abbey,  and  they  are  proud  to  name  him  as  one  of  the  worthies  ever  to  be 
remembered  in  the  venerable  city. 

A  few  years  ago  I  visited  his  grave,  and  the  house  in  which  he  died.  He  had 
retired  in  a  great  degree  from  labour,  and  lived  for  some  years  in  comparative  ease 
upon  well-earned  results  of  industry  combined  with  genius. 

In  1848  he  gave  me  for  publication  in  the  Art- Journal  an  autobiography.  It  was 
a  production  modest,  unassuming,  but  minute,  and  of  very  deep  interest.  His  pictures 
are  enormous  in  number,  but  his  "studies  from  the  life "  may  be  counted  by  hundreds. 
He  was  always  at  work ;  labour  was  his  happiness.  I  have  been  told  that  on  one 
occasion  when  he  returned  to  London  from  a  long  absence  on  the  Continent,  he  did 
not  go  home,  but  made  his  way  to  the  model-room  of  the  Academy,  knowing  it  to  be 
a  "life  evening,"  and  was  there  seen  working  away  —  copying  on  cardboard  the 
model  that  had  been  "  set  "  for  the  students. 

William  Muleeady  died  in  1863,  in  the  house  he  had  long  inhabited,  at  Linden 
Grove,  Bayswater.  He  is  said  to  have  been  born  in  1786,  but  it  must  have  been 
earlier.  He  was  certainly  more  than  seventy-seven  years  old.  Not  long  before  his 
death  he  showed  me  a  sketch  of  a  gravel-pit,  and  asked  me  where  I  thought  it  was 
painted.  To  my  astonishment,  he  added,  "  On  the  site  of  Kussell  Square."  Now, 
that  could  not  well  have  been  after  the  year  1800.  It  was  a  wonderful  little  picture, 
as  full  of  power  as  any  of  his  after-works.  He  began  Art  early,  no  doubt — exhibiting 
in  1806.  In  1815  he  became  an  Associate  of  the  Koyal  Academy,  and  a  Member  in 
1816 — only  a  year  intervening.  :^ 

He  was  born  at  Ennis,  where  his  father  carried  on  the  business  of  m  breeches- 
maker,  at  that  time  a  lucrative  trade,  for  it  implied  the  manufacture  of  "  buckskins," 
which  every  rider  of  the  period  wore.  His  parents  emigrated,  and  William  came 
with  them  to  London  when  quite  a  child.  It  is  doubtful  if  he  ever  afterwards  visited 
Ireland.  His  tall,  erect,  stalwart  form — handsome  and  intellectual  features,  though 
somewhat  severe  in  expression,  sharply  outlined — will  not  soon  be  forgotten.  He  has 
left  his  mark  on  the  age — foremost  among  the  many  who  have  elevated  British  Art, 
and  brought  to  it  honour  and  homage  throughout  the  world.  He  was  a  very  old 
man  when  he  died,  yet  did  not  look  so,  for  he  was  fresh,  almost  ruddy,  in  com- 
plexion;  his  eye  was  not  dim;  all  his  faculties  were  active;  he  was  "sound  wind 
and  limb,"  for  he  spent  an  evening  with  me,  a  year  before  his  death,  and  walked 
from  his  house  at  Bayswater  to  my  house  at  Brompton.*  He  made  wonderful 
drawings  up  to  the  close  of  life,  and  lived  to  see  himself  thoroughly  appreciated — in 


*  I  have  preserved  two  letters  of  Mulready's :  one,  dated  in  1825,  accepting  an  invitation  to  a  party  at  my 
house  ;  the  other  accepting  a  similar  invitation,  which  bears  the  date  1862. 


JAMES  DUFFIELD  HARDING.  483 

his  Art,  that  is  to  say  ;  for  he  was  lonely  and  not  happy  at  home — domestic  enjoy- 
ment was  not  one  of  the  blessings  bestowed  upon  him. 

He  was  a  student  almost  to  the  last  moment  of  his  prolonged  existence,  knowing 
always  that  he  had  yet  something  to  learn.  Even  in  him — upwards  of  eighty  years 
old- — ^was  illustrated  the  force  of  the  adage — 

"  Life  is  short :  Art  is  long !  " 

Fkancis  Danby  was  another  Irishman  whose  name  is  renowned  in  Art,  and, 
happily,  that  renown  is  continued  in  another  generation.  He  was  born  in  1793,  and 
died  in  1861.  Danby  came  young  to  England.  He  must  have  been  handsome  in 
person  then,  and  of  agreeable  manners  ;  for  both  were  good  in  advanced  life.  He 
vainly  strove  to  earn  some  dry  crusts  in  Bristol,  and  made  his  way  to  London,  in 
company  with  his  countryman,  O'Connor,  a  landscape-painter  of  great  genius.  The 
one  eventually  achieved  fame,  the  other  never  found  it.  Danby  became  a  great  and 
popular  artist ;  O'Connor  lived  wretchedly,  and  died  poor.  They  worked,  with  but 
little  hope  and  no  reward,  in  the  metropolis.  The  fifteen  guineas  which  Danby  had 
received  for  his  first  picture  from  Archdeacon  Hill,  of  Dublin,  and  which  he  shared 
with  his  friend,  were  soon  exhausted.  I  have  heard  him — and  honoured  him  as  I 
heard  him  —  describe  his  early  struggles  in  London,  enduring  penury  approaching 
want.  Can  we  not  draw  upon  our  fancy  for  the  picture  of  a  youth  with  high  hopes 
and  craving  ambition,  perhaps  born  a  gentleman  (as  Danby  was),  with  innate  self- 
respect  and  consciousness  of  power,  treading  the  streets  of  London — "  forsaken, 
friendless,  lone  " — ay,  alone  in  a  peopled  desert — the  appalling  solitude  of  a  great 
city ;  hungry,  and  none  to  give  him  food ;  sick,  and  none  to  visit  him ;  seeking  the 
poor  attic  that  was  his  shelter,  terrified  by  the  thought  of  unpaid  rent ;  disheartened, 
desponding,  despairing ;  yet  cheered  by  a  single  glimpse  of  sunshine  into  hope,  self- 
rehance — instinctive  assurance  of  ultimate  triumph  ?  I  have  known  many  cases  such 
as  that ;  the  case  of  Francis  Danby  is  but  one  of  them.  Alas  !  I  have  known  also 
many  who  gave  way — succumbed — and  fell ;  who  had  not  the  patience  to  wait ;  who 
had  no  faith  to  keep  off  despair — no  reliance  on  Providence  ;  who  forgot  the  emphatic 
and  encouraging  force  of  the  poet's  lines  : — 

"  The  darkest  day, 
Live  till  to-morrow,  ■will  hare  passed  away." 

James  Dufpield  Haeding.— There  have  been  few  artists  whose  loss  I  had  more 
reason  to  deplore  than  that  of  J.  D.  Harding.  He  was  a  valuable  writer  for  the 
Art- Journal:  his  pen  was  ever  ready  to  communicate  the  knowledge  he  had  acquired 
by  long  practice  in  the  executive  of  Art,  as  well  as  by  extensive  reading  and  the 
results  of  matured  study.  My  connection  with  him  extended  over  many  years. 
We  were  associated  in  the  production  of  the  "  Baronial  Halls,"  a  work  for  which  he 
did  the  principal  drawings  by  the  then  new,  but  now  forgotten,  art  of  "  Lithotint ;" 
and  I  ever  found  him  a  most  agreeable  companion,  as  well  as  a  powerful  ally,  m 
the  several  tours  we  made  together.     He  was  born  at  Deptford  in  1798,  and  his 

I  I  2 


father  was  an  artist :  he  had,  therefore,  the  advantage  that  arises  from  early  training 
in  a  good  school. 

There  have  been  few  better  landscape-painters,  and  as  a  teacher  he  was  sur- 
passed by  none  :  he  did  much,  indeed,  all  his  life  long  to  indicate  lessons  in  pure 
taste  and  faithful  study  of  Nature.  His  professional  brethren  owe  him  much,  but 
perhaps  Art-amateurs  owe  him  more,  for  he  guided  them  wisely  and  well ;  and  his 
several  lesson-books  will  be  highly  valued  by  all  who  study  them. 

To  sketch,  to  draw,  or  to  paint,  and  to  do  it  well,  seemed  to  him  simple,  easy, 
and  sure ;  and  he  soon  wearied  of  pupils  to  whom  either  was  a  labour.  He  was, 
moreover,  a  thorough  gentleman, — in  person,  in  mind,  and  in  heart.  Few  men  had 
a  more  commanding  or  imposing  presence.  I  remember  his  telling  me  an  anecdote. 
He  was  once  sketching  under  a  country  hedge  ;  a  shadow  came  over  his  paper,  and 
he  heard  a  rough  country  voice :  "I  could  do  that ;  first  you  make  a  scrat  here,  and 
then  you  look ;  next  you  make  a  scrat  there,  and  then  you  look.  I  could  do  that : 
any  fool  could  do  that !  " 

They  would  not  have  this  ripe  Art- scholar  at  the  Royal  Academy.  He  quitted 
the  Society  of  Painters  in  Water  Colours  to  qualify  for  admission,  put  down  his  name 
in  "  the  book"  year  after  year,  but  I  believe,  never  had  a  vote. 

He  died  at  Barnes  in  1863.  A  great  Art-scholar  and  Art-teacher  was  then  lost 
to  the  profession  and  the  world. 

America  has  somewhat  persistently  claimed  the  honour  of  giving  birth  to  the 
accomplished  artist  Chakles  Egbert  Leslie.  He  was  born  (in  1794)  at  Clerken- 
well,  but  was  taken  to  the  States  when  young;  "  not  so  young,  however," — so  wrote 
to  me  his  friend  Thomas  Uwins, — "  as  to  prevent  his  having  a  full  recollection  of  the 
voyage  out,  of  which  I  have  heard  him  relate  many  particulars."  A  few  years  after- 
wards— in  1811 — he  returned  to  England,  was  entered  a  student  at  the  Royal 
Academy,  and  adopted  Art  as  a  profession. 

He  attained  the  highest  eminence  as  an  artist,  and  achieved  some  fame  as  a 
writer.  His  Lectures  are  very  useful  lessons ;  his  Life  of  Constable  is  a  fine 
example  of  biography;  while  his  "Hand-book  for  Young  Painters"  is  a  valuable 
assemblage  of  wise  rules  for  guidance. 

Of  his  pictures  it  is  needless  to  write ;  they  are,  perhaps,  as  well  known  and 
largely  esteemed  as  those  of  any  painter  of  the  age.  The  subjects  he  selected  were 
always  attractive,  manifesting  reading  as  well  as  thought,  and  often  commemorating 
incidents  or  events  that,  if  not  "  history,"  had  much  of  its  interest  and  worth. 
He  had  a  well-stored  and  richly-cultivated  mind,  sound  knowledge,  and  active 
imagination.  He  died  in  1859  ;  and  happily  the  nation  possesses  several  of  his 
best  works. 

In  person  he  was  of  the  middle  size,  slight  and  gentlemanly,  without  being 
graceful.  His  features  were  not  animated ;  they  seemed  rather  overburdened  with 
repose  ;  there  was  neither  in  the  expression  of  his  countenance,  nor  in  his  manner 
generally,  any  indication  of  the  genius  he  undoubtedly  possessed.    He  was  exemplary 


in   all  the  relations  of  life,  prudent,  upright,  and  conscientious,  respected  by  his 
acquaintances,  and  beloved  by  his  friends.* 

I  knew  Thomas  Uwins  well,  before  he  had  attained  celebrity  and  afterwards — 
when,  indeed,  he  was  an  illustrator  of  books  ;  for  in  that  capacity  he  commenced  his 
career  as  an  artist,  and  probably  thus  acquired  his  knowledge  of  the  best  authors : 
few  exhibited  more  thorough  appreciation  of  the  "  classics  "  of  our  language,  or 
more  often  resorted  to  them  for  suggestive  help.  After  his  visit  to  Rome,  however, 
he  based  his  subjects  almost  exclusively  on  the  scenes  and  characters  he  saw  there 
and  in  Naples.  Italy  was  not,  in  1827,  as  open  as  it  has  recently  been  to  the 
painters  of  all  nations. 

He  was  a  small  man,  of  no  remarkable  or  impressive  exterior,  and  with  little 
bodily  energy ;  of  calm  and  quiet  manners  and  homely  habits.  He  loved  his  art,  and 
it  gave  him  society  enough.  He  had,  however,  largely  cultivated  his  mind  by  read- 
ing and  thought. 

In  1836  he  was  elected  a  Royal  Academician — the  great  object  of  his  ambition 
in  life.  As  a  partisan  of  the  Academy  he  was  irrational — even  fierce ;  he  would 
listen  to  no  arguments  that  suggested  its  improvement  with  a  view  to  correspond 
more  accurately  with  an  altered  "  state  of  things,"  although  while  a  Member  of  the 
Society  of  Painters  in  Water  Colours  he  was  an  advocate  for  its  reform.  But  his  is  by 
no  means  a  solitary  case.  I  have  known  many  artists  who,  before  admission  into 
the  Academy,  were  eager  advocates  of  certain  changes  ;  when  elected  Associates  they 
shook  their  heads  in  deprecation  of  interference  ;  and  when  promoted  to  full  honours 
became  loud  in  anger  at  any  suggestion  for  interrupting  it  in  its  course,  and  gave 
the  "  cold  shoulder  "  to  all  who  argued  as  they  themselves  had  argued  before  they 
became  members  of  the  body. 

Uwins  does  not  hold  the  highest  place  in  Art-annals ;  but  he  was  a  good  painter, 
of  sound  judgment  and  intellectual  strength.  His  pictures  are  characterised  by 
graceful  composition  and  delicate  execution.  Whatever  he  did  was  done  carefully 
and  conscientiously,  and  his  works  will  always  be  valued  as  examples  of  simple,  pure, 
and  unaffected  Art.  In  1842  he  was  appointed  by  her  Majesty  Surveyor  of  the  Royal 
Pictures,  and,  in  1847,  Keeper  of  the  National  Gallery. 

He  married,  late  in  life,  a  lady  who  survived  him :  he  died  at  Staines,  on  the 
25th  of  August,  1857  (his  birthday),  at  the  age  of  seventy-five;  and  in  the  pic- 
turesque graveyard  of  that  town  he  was  buried.  Death  approached  him  with  slow 
steps.  I  saw  him  not  long  before  he  was  "  called,"  and  was  deeply  touched  at 
noting  the  feeble  steps  and  hearing  the  weak  voice  of  the  venerable  man  as  he  said, 
"I  have  always  feared  there  would  come  a  time  when  I  should  look  out  on  the 
beauties  of  Nature  and  see  no  beauty  in  them.  It  is  come.  I  look  out  this  morn- 
ing, and  see  no  beauty  in  that  beautiful  garden  !  "     He  was,  however,  cheered  and 


*  His  son  George  has  made  a  very  high  reputation  as  an  artist,  is  a  member  of  the  Royal  Academy,  and  his 
works  rival  those  ot  his  accomplished  father. 


strengtliened  by  deep  religious  feeling,  had  firm  and  well-grounded  faith,  and  perfect 
trust  in  the  Almighty. 

The  last  letter  I  received   from   Mr.  Uwins   is  dated  April  29th,  1856.     He 
writes  : — 


■worse.  I  wish  to  thank  you  most  sincerely  for  all  your  kindness  to  me  throagh  a  long  course  of 
years.  Life  is  a  frail  tenure  at  best,  and  I  have  got  beyond  three  score  years  and  ten,  thankful 
to  all  my  friends  who  have  been  raised  up  to  me  by  a  kind  Providence,  and  saying,  most  humbly 
and  gratefully,  '  God's  will  be  done ! '  The  picture  I  have  sent  to  the  Exhibition  betrays  some 
symptoms  of  age  and  illness :  perhaps  it  is  my  last." 

The  sculptor,  John  Gibson,  died  in  Eome,  where  he  had  been  nearly  all  his  long 
life  a  resident,  and  is  buried  among  the  glories  of  his  worship  in  the  Eternal  City. 
He  was  seventy-seven  years  old,  having  been  born  at  Conway,  in  North  Wales,  in 
1789  :  he  died  on  the  27th  of  January,  1866.  He  did  not  long  survive  his  friend 
Eastlake,  and  the  widow  of  the  President  has  written  a  touching  and  eloquent 
biography  of  the  sculptor.  Mrs.  Jameson,  writing  of  him  in  1826,  in  her  "  Diary  of 
an  Ennuyee,"  described  him  as,  though  with  "  quite  the  air  of  a  genius,"  of  "  plain 
features,  but  a  countenance  all  beaming  with  fire,  spirit,  and  intelligence." 

All  who  have  visited  Eome — those  more  especially  who  either  loved  or  studied 
Art — depose  to  the  kind  and  generous  sympathy  of  G-ibson.  He  was  ever  ready  to 
communicate  information,  and  to  tender  practical  aid.  His  atelier  was  open  to  all 
comers,  and  he  would  frequently  visit  the  studios  of  rising  artists  who  sought  his 
counsel  and  encouragement.  He  did  not  cease  to  be  useful  when  he  died.  Among 
his  bequests  there  were  many  to  old  and  valued  friends  ;  and  his  munificent  legacy 
to  the  Eoyal  Academy  is,  we  trust,  destined  to  produce,  for  the  benefit  of  Ai^t  in 
England,  the  fruit  it  has  not  yet  borne. 

Of  late  years  he  paid  many  visits  to  England,  and  here  his  society  was  much 
courted.  He  usually  gave  an  evening  to  us,  and  was  often  accompanied  by  his 
friend  Penry  WiUiams,  with  whom  we  had  the  pleasure  to  be  acquainted  so  far  back 
as  the  year  1827. 

The  manners  of  Gibson  were  entirely  unassuming,  gracious,  and  kindly :  if  his 
exterior  was  not  striking,  it  was  very  prepossessing ;  and  no  doubt  he  was  handsome 
when  young,  for  in  age  there  was  much  of  that  which  takes  the  place  of  personal 
gifts.  It  was  easy  to  understand  that  many  loved  and  all  respected  him,  and  that 
he  was  estimable  either  as  a  companion,  adviser  or  friend. 

James  Ward  died  in  1859,  at  the  age  of  ninety-one.  He  had  been  a  student  of 
the  Eoyal  Academy  when  Eeynolds  was  its  President,  and  was  a  Member  so  loner 


*  TMs  refers  to  his  engagement  to  "tonoli"  the  engravers'  proofs,  and  suggest  such  improvements  as  mio-ht 
occnx  to  his  experienced  mmd  with  regard  to  the  prints  engraved  from  her  Majesty's  private  coUection  of  piSures 
toi  "The  Roy  a,l  Gailery  ot  Alt,"  pubhshedm  the  Art- Journal.  j      j     i-  v     ^^i^xx  ul  pii.i,uiK5> 


ago  as  1811.  Ward  was  one  of  a  family  of  artists  :  he  was  the  brother-in-law  of 
Morland,  the  father-in-law  of  Jackson  ;  and  his  son,  George  Eaphael  Ward,  dis- 
tinguished himself  as  a  miniature-painter,  and  subsequently  as  a  mezzotinto-engraver. 
The  davTghter  of  Mr.  G.  E.  Ward  is  the  accomplished  lady  whose  works  take  rank 
with  those  of  any  painter  of  either  sex  which  the  age  has  produced.  She  is  the  wife 
of  the  renowned  artist,  E.  M.  Ward  (her  namesake,  but  no  blood  relation),  and  in 
several  of  their  children  the  Art-faculty  is  continued  in  another  generation. 

I  recall  the  portrait  of  "  old  Ward  "  as  that  of  a  venerable  man,  with  long  grey 
hair  and  flowing  beard ;  his  eye  clear  and  penetrating  ;  and  the  general  expression 
of  his  countenance  dignified  and  intelligent.  His  mind  was  sound,  rational,  and 
inquiring ;  a  religious  tone  of  thought  pervaded  it  and  influenced  all  his  actions. 

As  a  painter  of  animals  he  stands  at  the  very  head  of  his  order.  Without  the 
brilliant  fancy  of  some  of  his  successors,  he  excells  them  all  in  portraying  facts.  It 
is  scarcely  too  much  to  say  that  his  famous  "  Bull,'  now  in  the  National  Collection, 
may  be  placed  side  by  side  with  the  renowned  work  of  Paul  Potter  at  the  Hague,  as 
sustaining  the  claim  of  James  Ward  to  be  considered  second  only  to  him  whom  all 
the  world  honours. 

In  1849  Mr.  Ward  gave  me  for  publication  in  the  Art-Journal  a  deeply  interest- 
ing memoir  of  himself.  He  was  born  in  Thomas  Street,  London,  and  was  christened 
in  All-HaUlows'  Church  on  the  23rd  of  October,  1769.  At  first  he  was  an  engraver, 
being  articled  to  K.  Smith;  "  but,"  he  says,  "so  far  from  receiving  any  care  or 
instruction  from  Smith ;  he  would  not  allow  me  paper  to  draw  upon  :  like  the 
Israelites  of  old,  I  was  required  to  make  bricks  without  straw."  When  the  shackles 
were  removed,  he  soon  became  a  painter  :  he  found  patrons  rapidly — for  those  days  ; 
and  died  "  full  of  years,"  and  also  of  "  honours,"  esteemed  and  respected  by  all  who 
knew  him,  and  reverenced  by  the  most  estimable  members  of  his  profession. 

I  must  group  some  of  the  other  Artists  I  have  known  ;  for  the  space  to  which  I 
am  limited  is  nearly  exhausted.  Though  I  give  "Memories  "  of  but  few,  I  knew 
them  all— at  least,  all  who  achieved  distinction  in  my  time  :  many  of  them  were  of 
my  acquaintance  when  their  career  in  Art  was  commenced,  and  I  have  watched  their 
progress,  onwards  and  upwards,  often  to  its  close,  rejoicing  when  the  harbour  was 
gained  and  the  reward  assured. 

Sir  Augustus  Wall  Callcott  was  a  remarkably  handsome  man,  a  scholar,  and 
a  courteous  gentleman.  Although  somewhat  stately  in  manners,  he  was  a  great 
artist :  all  who  are  familiar  with  British  Art  know  that.  Jew  men  of  any  profession 
have  been  more  respected  and  esteemed.  What  I  wrote  of  him  soon  after  his  death 
I  may  quote  now  that  time  has  tested  the  value  of  his  works,  although  it  has  removed 
so  many  who  could  recall  his  fine  person  and  mtellectual  head,  and  bear  testimony  to 
his  moral  and  social  worth. 

"  Hiffh  was  Callcott' s  character  as  a  member  of  society.  Honoured  by  the  great  in  rank,  he 
evervwhere  took  occasion  to  excite  in  his  table-talk  the  general  reverence  for  Art,  m  the  views  of 
which  liis  mind  took  a  wide  scope.  To  many  of  his  associates,  valuable  mdeed  have  been  the 
principles  and  modes  of  practice  which  he  inculcated  ;  while  the  younger  members  of  the  brother- 


hood  ever  found  in  him  a  friendly  encourager.  When,  in  addition  to  these  good  qualities,  we 
advert  to  his  spirit  of  charity,  and  to  the  warm  sympathies  displayed  in  his  domestic  relations, 
we  have  offered  an  earnest  trihute  to  a  man  whose  memory  will  he  cherished  by  those  who  knew 
him,  and  respected  by  aU  to  whom  proofs  of  his  genius  may  happen  to  descend." 

He  was  born  at  Kensington  in  1779,  and  there  he  died  in  1845.  Among  the 
earliest  and  happiest  of  my  "  Memories  "  are  the  visits  I  paid  to  him  at  his  residence 
at  Kensington  Gravel  Pits. 

Gilbert  Stuakt  Newton — the  early  friend  of  Leslie — was  a  tall  man,  handsome, 
and  impressive  in  person  ;  but,  as  I  thought  when  I  knew  him,  and  as  I  think  still, 
of  a  disposition  approaching  the  morose.  Perhaps  the  shadow  of  a  heavy  calamity 
was  over  him  long  before  the  bolt  fell ;  for  while  comparatively  young  he  became  an 
inmate  of  a  lunatic  asylum,  where  he  died.  He  was  one  of  the  few  artists  who 
received  large  prices  for  his  works  fifty  years  ago — finding  patrons  in  nobles,  before 
merchants  and  traders  had  learned  to  value  Art.  Among  those  who  bought  his 
pictures  were  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  the  Marquis  of  Lansdowne,  and  the  Marquis  of 
Hastings.     Newton  was  born  in  Canada  in  1794,  and  died  in  London  in  1835. 

A  handsome,  round-faced,  round-bodied  man  was  the  renowned  sculptor,  Sir 
Francis  Chantrey,  who  "led"  the  profession  for  many  years  in  England.  He 
painted  portraits  when  a  youth,  and  when  famous  and  wealthy  was  not  ashamed  to 
acknowledge  a  piece  of  carving  at  the  house  of  the  poet  Eogers,  which  he  had 
wrought  when  receiving,  as  an  artisan,  wages  of  five  shillings  a  day.  There  was 
neither  in  the  appearance  nor  manners  of  Sir  Francis  any  indications  of  early  contest 
with  restricted  means.  Probably  there  had  been  none.  He  was  easy,  even  graceful, 
in  manners,  and  could  not,  I  think,  have  been  awkward,  or  embarrassed,  or  out  of 
place,  when  the  guest  of  the  highest  noble  in  the  land.  He  was  born  in  1782,  and 
died  in  1841. 

I  recall  the  picture  of  a  venerable  man  sitting  in  a  confused  and  over-crowded 
room  in  Newman  Street  (where  I  saw  him  often),  surrounded  by  his  sketches — 
Thomas  Stothard.  He  had  a  huge  head  ;  his  form  was  large  and  heavy ;  but, 
although  in  appearance  he  gave  little  indication  of  the  grace  and  fancy  so  prominent 
in  his  pictures,  he  was  a  very  pleasant  old  man,  the  expression  of  whose  features 
was  peculiarly  gentle  and  gracious.  His  illustrations  of  books  have  never  been 
surpassed  from  that  far-off  day  to  this.     He  died,  aged  seventy-nine,  in  1834. 

When  I  knew  Robert  Smirke — visiting  him  at  his  house  in  Fitzroy  Square — he 
was  a  very  aged  man  ;  he  was  ninety-four  years  old  when  he  died,  in  1845.  He  had 
known  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds — was  not  young,  indeed,  when  the  great  painter  died ; 
for  Smirke  became  an  Associate  of  the  Royal  Academy  in  1792,  the  year  in  which 
Sir  Joshua  bade  farewell  to  Art  on  earth.  About  the  year  1830  I  used  occasionally 
to  sit  and  chat  with,  or  rather  listen  to,  the  venerable  man,  whose  mind  and  thoughts 
were  with  the  past.     1  can  recall  his  white  head  and  still  clear  grey  eye,  and  I  seem 


MEMORIES.  489 


to  hear  his  calm  and  quiet  voice,  even  now ;  for  he  would  speak  occasionally  of 
scenes  and  persons  long  gone  by. 

None  who  knew  William  Beockedon  can  have  forgotten  him.  He  was  not  a 
great  artist,  though  an  indefatigable  worker  :  he  was  that  in  many  ways.  He  had 
some  half-dozen  patents  for  scientific  discoveries  that  made  him  rich,  but  he  died 
before  time  was  given  him  to  enjoy  wealth.  A  stalwart,  hearty  man  he  was,  full  of 
buoyant  and  vigorous  life  :  his  laugh  seemed  the  echo  of  his  heart's  joy.  His  head 
was  remarkably  fine — rich  in  intellectual  and  expressive  character.  His  manner  was 
exceedingly  frank  and  cordial.  Children  instinctively  loved  him,  though  his  voice 
was  loud  and  his  form  massive.  "  Much  had  he  seen,  much  more  had  heard,  and  in 
the  interval  studied  mankind."  His  conversation,  therefore,  was  ever  interesting, 
and  always  instructive.  In  a  word,  he  was  sound — sound  in  understanding  and  in 
heart.  He  was  one  of  the  men  to  whom  Devonshire,  so  fertile  of  artists,  gave  birth  ; 
was  born  at  Totnes  in  1787  ;  and  died  in  1854. 

I  recall  with  pleasure  William  Collins,  an  Irishman  by  descent,  and  one  who 
loved  Ireland.  He  was  a  cheerful  man — contented  with  his  lot,  and  the  modest 
independence  his  professional  labour  obtained  for  him.  He  was  truly  a  pleasant 
companion  ;  pleasant  to  look  at,  to  sit  with,  to  converse  with  ;  a  very  loveable  man, 
even  to  those  who  knew  little  of  him,  and  greatly  so  to  the  domestic  circle — wife, 
children,  and  friends.  He  was  a  scholar  as  well  as  a  gentleman,  graceful  and 
gracious  in  manners,  considerate  and  kind  to  all  who  approached  him.  His  eldest 
son  is  one  of  the  famous  authors  of  our  day.  Collins  died  in  1847,  but  lived  to  see 
the  "  shadow  cast  before  "  of  the  son  who  has  made  renowned  a  name  which  the 
artist  had  previously  given  to  fame. 

Sir  William  Ross — who  is  said  to  have  painted  two  thousand  two  hundred 
miniatures — began  his  Art-life  as  an  historical  painter,  covering  huge  canvases,  and 
giving  promise  of  excellence,  having  obtained  no  fewer  than  five  medals  from  the 
Society  of  Arts,  when  that  always  useful  Society  did  something  for  Art.  His  minia- 
tures— in  which  he  surpassed  all  his  contemporaries  in  grace,  elegance,  accuracy  of 
Hkeness,  and  minuteness  of  finish — comprised  a  large  portion  of  the  aristocracy,  and 
nearly  every  member  of  every  royal  family  in  Europe.  Good  Sir  William  Ross  !  I 
seem  to  see  now  his  gracious  and  kindly  countenance,  and  to  hear  his  sweet  and 
loving  voice.  He  was  essentially  amiable,  of  a  gentle  and  tender  nature,  doing  well 
all  the  work  that  God  had  called  upon  him  to  do.  Up  to  the  last,  much  of  his 
Sabbath-day  of  rest  was  passed  at  a  Sunday-school,  teaching  the  very  young  to  read 
and  understand  the  Scriptures.  He  was  plain  and  simple  there,  and  plain  and 
simple  in  the  palaces  where  he  was  welcomed.  I  may  apply  to  him  Wordsworth's 
epitaph  on  Lamb  : — 

"  Oh !  he  was  good,  if  ever  good  man  was. 

He  was  born  in  1794,  became  an  R.A.  in  1843  (not  until  he  was  forty-nine  years 
old),  and  died  in  1860. 


490  MEMORIES. 

I  remember  Sir  Richard  Westmacott  as  the  ideal  of  a  finished  gentleman,  as  far 
from  assumption  as  from  foppery ;  yet  very  dignified  withal,  and  fully  conscious  of 
the  powers  of  thought,  labour,  and  fancy  that  had  placed  him  at  the  summit  of  his 
profession — in  poetical  sculpture. 

Some  of  those  who  yet  live  may  have  known  the  landscape-painter,  Hofland, 
although  he  was  born  in  1777,  and  died  in  1843.  He  was  a  tall  man,  of  some 
formality  of  manners,  and  was  not  genial,  although  he  loved  Nature,  and  was 
a  devout  brother  of  the  angle.  He  was  one  of  the  founders  of  the  Society  of 
British  Artists,  and  originated  the  Artists'  General  Benevolent  Society.  His  name 
should  not  be  forgotten,  even  if  there  were  no  other  cause  for  preserving  it  than 
that  he  gave  it  to  one  of  the  most  useful  writers  of  our  time — dear,  good,  upright, 
Barbara  Hofland. 

Many  will  remember  little  William  Henry  Hunt — the  artist  who  painted  won- 
derful transcripts  of  wild  Nature — making  primroses,  blackberries,  and  blades  of 
grass,  on  paper,  of  greater  money  value  than  the  acres  on  which  they  were  grown. 
That  is  no  exaggeration.  I  have  seen  a  drawing  by  him — twelve  inches  by  ten — 
sold  for  three  hundred  guineas  at  a  public  sale.  A  very  little  maij  he  was,  almost  a 
dwarf,  with  a  big  head,  but  with  a  kindly  and  pleasant  countenance,  as  pure  and 
simple  as  the  cowslip  he  loved  to  paint.    He  died  in  1864,  at  the  age  of  seventy-four. 

George  Lance — whom  all  esteemed  and  many  loved  for  his  very  kindly  nature, 
suave  and  gentle  manners,  and  generous  sympathies — painted  fruit  and  "  still  life" 
as  few  ever  painted  them  before  or  since  :  he  sought,  in  vain,  admission  into  the 
Academy,  although  year  after  year,  for  very  many  years,  his  pictures  were  leading 
attractions  of  the  Exhibitions.  He  was  of  the  middle  height,  with  dark,  abundant 
hair  and  striking  exterior.     He  died  in  1864,  in  the  sixty-second  year  of  his  age. 

Frederick  Lee  Bridell  died  young.  All  his  Art-life  he  had  been  in  the  hands 
of  dealers.  They  had  his  brain,  his  sinews,  the  very  marrow  of  his  bones ;  they 
kept  him  back  from  fame,  when  fame  was  striving  to  help  him  onwards  ;  they  gave 
him  the  crumbs  that  fell  from  the  table  for  which  he  furnished  the  feast.  He  died  of 
that  rare  sickness  among  men  of  genius — hope  deferred.  I  saw,  not  long  ago,  in  a 
dealer's  hands,  a  picture  of  his  painting,  and  by  no  means  his  best,  for  which  a 
thousand  pounds  were  demanded,  and  probably  obtained.  He  was  taken  from  earth 
when  he  saw  only — but  he  did  see  it — the  shadow  of  the  homage  his  works  were  to 
receive.  Let  us  rank  him  among  the  leading  landscape-painters  of  the  age  and 
country,  although  that  he  was  so  was  a  secret  profoundly  kept  while  he  lived,  and 
although  just  the  year  before  he  died  his  two  offered  contributions  to  the  Royal 
Academy  were — rejected  ! 

I  may  class  David  Cox,  John  Wilson,  and  James  Stark  together,  for  they  were 
landscape-painters  who  loved  Nature,  and  did  justice  to  her  charms  when  they 


MEMORIES.  491 


pictured  her.  The  higher  station  must,  however,  be  accorded  to  David  Cox,  a  man 
of  true  genius  as  well  as  indefatigable  industry,  who  lived  to  find  himself  famous, 
and  to  wonder  what  people  could  see  in  his  works  that  made  them  to  be  considered 
better  than  those  of  others. 

A  tall  and  slender  and  somewhat  melancholy -looking  man  was  Copley  Fielding  ; 
yet  very  gentle,  courteous,  and  kindly  ;  loving  Art,  and  enjoying  it  as  a  luxury  of 
life.  He  preferred  green  pasture-fields  and  thorough  English  lanes,  and  the  sheep- 
shaven  downs  of  Sussex,  to  the  attractions  of  London,  and  seldom  visited  the 
metropolis  except  in  the  merry  month  of  May,  when  the  attractions  of  the  Exhibitions 
surpassed,  for  the  moment,  those  of  Nature. 

John  Varley  was  a  brusque  and  "  hasty  "  man  ;  stout  of  person,  yet  singularly 
active  ;  he  was  all  movement ;  he  dreamed  dreams,  and  saw  visions ;  was  a 
spiritualist  before  spiritualism  was  a  theme  of  talk  and  thought  as  it  now  is ;  and 
was  the  friend  of  that  sweet  man  and  angel- lover  whom  1  deeply  regret  I  did  not 
know — William  Blake.     Varley  died  in  1842. 

Poor  wayward  Rippingille  !  always  struggling  against  a  conviction  that  Fate 
withheld  from  him  the  greatness  that  was  his  right !  His  life  was  a  perpetual  war 
with  others,  but  also  with  himself.  A  constitutional  irritabihty,  a  proneness  to 
debate,  and  that  which  is  very  dangerous  to  artists — a  liking  to  use  the  pen — 
stood  terribly  in  his  way ;  and  he  never  fulfilled,  up  to  a  period  of  age,  the  promise 
he  had  given  in  youth.  I  knew  him  well,  and  liked  him  ;  for  his  was  the  earnestness 
of  purpose  that  might  have  achieved  greatness,  but  that  a  constitutional  bias  to 
debate  led  him  perpetually  into  error. 

One  of  the  pleasantest  of  all  our  artists  was  lost  to  us  when,  in  November,  1859, 
Frank  Stone  died.  He  was  a  charming  delineator  of  female  grace  and  loveliness  ; 
and  perhaps  the  most  popular  of  his  pictures  are  those  in  which  he  most  displayed 
his  peculiar  gift,  although  he  essayed,  and  often  successfully,  to  deal  with  loftier 
themes  than  "  fancy  portraiture  ;  "  and  among  his  later  works,  those  especially  for 
which  he  gathered  subjects  in  the  South  of  France,  are  some  of  a  high  order  of  merit 
in  conception  and  in  execution.  I  knew  him  in  1830,  when  he  made  his  cUhut  in 
London,  having  previously  established  a  provincial  reputation.  He  was  then  a 
handsome  and  gentlemanly  man,  well  educated,  and  with  manners  very  prepos- 
sessing. He  was  much  indebted  to  the  engravers,  who  made  his  works  popular,  and 
spread  his  fame  over  the  world.  His  son,  Marcus  Stone,  has  surpassed  the  father 
in  the  loftier  elements  of  Art;  and,  indeed,  in  its  "  execution  "—ranking  among 
the  very  foremost  artists  of  the  age.  His  themes  are  almost  invariably  original  in 
conception,  though  generally  derived  from  history  ;  he  reads  and  thinks,  as  well  as 
paints ;  and  it  is  easy  to  foresee  that  his  destiny  is  to  occupy  the  highest  place  in 
his  profession. 


492  MEMORIES. 

John  Wilson — whose  son  also  rivals  the  father,  by  whom  he  was  educated  in 
Art — was  a  thorough  Scotchman  to  the  last,  with  manners  rough,  but  kindly  ;  a 
countenance  of  much  intelligence  ;  and  a  nature  generous  and  sympathetic.  He  had 
been  a  sailor  in  his  youth,  and  looked  like  an  "  ancient  mariner  "  when  he  was  aged. 
Few  men  painted  better  the  ships  and  boats  and  wooden  walls  of  England,  and  the 
storms  and  calms  at  sea  to  which  he  had  been  accustomed.  He  died  in  1855,  upwards 
of  eighty  years  old  ;  yet  his  pencil  had  not  been  laid  by,  and  some  of  his  latest 
works  would  be  classed  among  his  best.  He  was  a  prominent  member,  and  one  of 
the  founders,  of  the  Society  of  British  Artists. 

Augustus  Leopold  Egg  is  buried  on  the  summit  of  a  high  hill  overlooking 
Algiers.  He  had  made  a  tour  to  the  East  in  search  of  health,  and  died  on  the  way 
home.  He  was  a  mild  and  gentlemanly  man,  of  pleasant  exterior,  and  full  of  infor- 
mation, and  he  has  left  his  mark  on  the  Art-records  of  his  time.  He  died  in  1863> 
at  a  comparatively  early  age  ;  but  not  until  he  had  achieved  high  rank  in  Art,  and 
been  very  largely  estimated. 

One  of  the  best  of  our  artists  was  William  Dyce,  a  very  gentlemanly  man,  of 
attractive  exterior,  with  a  fine  intellectual  head,  and  expressive,  if  not  particularly 
handsome  features  ;  wanting,  perhaps,  in  warmth  of  character  and  fervour  of  feeling 
■ — disadvantages  that  aifected  his  manners  and  influenced  his  works.  He  was  not 
an  original  genius,  but  he  was  a  learned  painter — a  thorough  "  theoretician,"  so  to 
speak.  None  knew  better  the  rules  of  Art,  nor  could  more  efi"ectually  deal  with  its 
materials;  few  had  a  loftier  notion  of  what  Art  could  and  ought  to  do.  He  was 
mimd,  both  in  theory  and  practice — a  scholar  as  well  as  a  gentleman  ;  and  it  was  a 
heavy  loss,  that  which  fell  on  the  profession  when  he  was  called  away  in  the  vigour 
of  intellect,  almost  in  the  prime  of  life.  He  was  born  at  Aberdeen  in  1806,  and 
died  in  1864. 

Thomas  Creswick  was  tall  and  stout,  with  a  countenance  of  much  intelligence  ; 
of  manners  somewhat  rough,  although  genial  and  kindly.  As  a  graceful  and 
singularly  harmonious  painter  of  landscapes  he  was  largely  estimated,  and  he  will 
continue  to  be  valued  as  long  as  the  charms  of  Nature  are  sources  of  enjoyment  and 
happiness.  He  was  born  at  Sheffield  in  1811,  but  was  educated  at  Birmingham,  and 
in  1828  came  to  London,  where  he  had  not  long  to  wait  for  fame.  In  that  year,  or 
in  1829,  he  exhibited  two  pictures  at  the  Society  of  British  Artists.  I  directed  to 
them  the  attention  of  the  then  publisher,  Mr.  Hodgson,  who  purchased  them.  He 
died  at  Linden  Grove,  Bayswater,  in  December,  1869. 

George  Cattermole  achieved  great  success  as  a  water-colour  painter ;  in  a 
peculiar  style,  indeed,  he  has  not  been  approached  by  any  painter  of  his  time.  I 
knew  him  when,  as  a  young  man,  he  was  the  right  hand  of  good  John  Britton.  As 
a  mere  youth  he  made  marvellous  drawings  for  the  eminent  antiquary — the  pioneer 
of  the  archaeologists.     Cattermole  made  the  dealers,  but  not  himself,  rich.     He  left, 


MEMORIES.  493 

indeed,  very  little  wealth  to  his  family — not  enough  to  place  a  worthy  monument 
over  the  grave  of  one  of  the  greatest  among  the  many  great  artists  of  whom  England 
has  reason  to  be  proud. 

The  elder  Richardson — Thomas  Miles  Richaedson — was  a  "  country  prac- 
titioner," living  and  teaching  during  more  than  sixty  years  at  Newcastle-on-Tyne, 
where  he  was  much  respected  as  a  worthy  gentleman,  as  well  as  an  admirable  artist. 
He  was  but  little  known  in  the  metropolis,  and  did  not  live  to  find  his  works  appre- 
ciated. Recently,  however,  they  have  been  eagerly  sought  for  by  collectors,  and 
they  will  increase  in  value ;  for  they  are  based  on  Nature,  and  manifest  thorough 
acquaintance  with  the  capabilities  of  Art.  His  son  has  lived  in  a  time  more 
auspicious,  and  has  achieved  fortune  as  well  as  fame,  I  knew  the  elder  Richardson 
at  Newcastle,  his  birthplace,  and  the  scene  of  his  long  and  honourable  labours. 

D.  0.  Hill  has  been  removed  from  us  very  recently.  He  was  born  at  Perth  in 
1802,  and  died  in  1870.  As  a  landscape-artist  he  held  high  rank  in  Scotland,  and 
had  many  admirers  in  England  :  his  works,  indeed,  may  be  classed  among  the  best 
of  either  country.  He  was  one  of  the  earliest  to  make  famous  the  Scottish  School 
of  Art:  he  "helped  "  it  in  its  infancy,  and  lived  to  see  it  not  only  respected,  but 
honoured  ;  and  it  owes  him  much,  not  only  for  his  continual  and  anxious  labours 
for  its  advancement,  as  Secretary  of  the  Royal  Scottish  Academy,  but  for  the 
example  he  gave  its  members  as  a  Christian  gentleman,  upright  and  honourable  in 
all  things.  Few  men  have  been  more  deservedly  lamented.  He  was  married  to 
a  sister  of  my  valued  friend.  Sir  Joseph  Noel  Paton,  a  lady  who  is  distinguished  in 
the  highest  branch  of  art — Sculpture. 


Reviewing  these  Memories  of  Artists,  I  cannot  help  regretting  their  paucity.  My 
space  is  exhausted ;  and  I  am  able  to  render  but  insufficient  justice  to  the  many  I 
have  known  who  so  largely  contributed  to  the  delight  and  instruction  of  the  epoch. 
They  have  all  passed  away ;  and  if,  in  remembering  their  works,  I  am  too  much 
impressed  by  the  glories  that  are  gone,  I  can  rejoice  that  so  many  remain  who  will 
supply  great  and  grand  Memories  for  the  Hereafter. 


POSTSCEIPT. 


HITS  I  bring  these  "  Memories  "  to  a  close.  In  the  Retrospect,  although 
it  be  somewhat  allied  to  sadness,  I  had  much  to  gladden  and  console. 
For  the  most  part,  those  I  picture  suggested  only  thoughts  of  affectionate 
homage — not  alone  from  personal  feeling,  but  for  the  Works  that  have 

been,  so  often  and  so  long,  my  sources  of  happiness.     I  rejoice  that  it  has  been  my 

destiny  to  place  memorials  of  gratitude  on  the  graves  of  those 

"  who  rule 
Our  spirits  from  their  urns." 

I  have  endeavoured  to  bring  before  my  readers  the  Men  and  Women  who  have 
made  the  age  renowned  ;  but  I  have  written  only  of  such  as  are  Departed.  Happily, 
many  yet  remain  to  dignify  and  to  glorify  earth  ;  to  write  of  these  will  be  the  duty 
of  some  one  who  is  to  come  after  me. 

But  historians  of  the  later  half  of  the  nineteenth  century  will  not  have  such 
materials  as  the  first  half  of  it  supplied.  "  There  were  giants  on  earth  "  when  I 
was  young ;  there  are  few  such  to  excite  wonder,  as  well  as  reverence,  in  the 
existing  age,  although,  for  one  who  was  then  an  "  author  by  profession,"  there  are 
now  a  hundred  ;  while  readers  have  multiplied  a  thousand-fold. 

Chiefly  I  have  directed  the  thoughts  of  my  readers  to  the  loftier  spirits  of  my 
time  ;  others  there  are — lesser  lights — famous  in  their  degree,  by  whom  the  world 
has  been  enlightened  and  refined.  These  are  they  who,  to  borrow  a  figure  of  speech 
from  one  of  them,  "have  left  few  traces  on  the  page  of  history,  but  stalk  like 
gigantic  shadows  in  the  dim  twilight  of  tradition." 

Yes;  it  is  a  glorious  Past  to  which  I  look  back  through  "the  long  vista  of 
years,"  recalling  "  Memories  "  of  high  spirits  who  have  bequeathed  to  mankind  the 
gifts  they  received  from  God.  And  although  a  time  is  drawing  near — has  come, 
indeed — 

"  When  gathering  clouds  around  I  view, 
And  days  are  dark,  and  friends  are  few," 

I  cherish  the  well-grounded  hope  that  I  shall  meet  them  again,  in  humble  admiration 


and  fervent  gratitude,  in  hallowed  communion.  It  is  a  belief  that  Reason  justifies 
and  the  revealed  Word  upholds. 

It  is  obvious  that  the  means  of  acquiring  such  information  as  I  have  endeavoured 
to  supply  are  "growing  every  day  less  and  less,"  and  "in  a  short  time  will  be  lost 
for  ever."  Those  who  had  "  personal  knowledge  "  of  the  great  men  and  women  of 
whom  I  have  written  are  fast  "  dying  out ;"  few,  indeed,  now  live  to  communicate 
what  they  have  seen  as  well  as  heard.  Between  the  birthday  of  Hannah  More  and 
to-day  there  have  elapsed  nearly  one  hundred  and  thirty  years ;  more  than  eighty 
years  have  passed  since  Rogers  published  his  first  poem ;  Maria  Edgeworth  was 
born  in  1767  ;  and  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  and  Southey  were  given  to  earth  thirty 
years  before  the  nineteenth  century  commenced. 

I  may,  therefore,  hope  I  have  been  enabled  to  do  that  which  few  can  attempt  to 
do,  when  discoursing  "a  little"  concerning  the  great  men  and  women  I  have 
known  ;  "  their  manner  of  appearance  in  our  World's  business,  how  they  have 
shaped  themselves  in  the  World's  history,  what  ideas  men  formed  of  them,  what 
work  they  did." 

Whatever  Critics  may  think  and  say  of  this  Book,  I  trust  they  will  believe  I  have 
produced  it  in  earnestness  of  spirit  and  faithfulness  of  heart.  No  doubt  they  will 
find  in  it  much  to  condemn — on  the  ground  of  erring  judgment,  incapacity  to  com- 
prehend some  of  those  pictured,  or  insufficiency  of  evidence  and  of  knowledge  in 
the  estimates  formed  and  given  ;  but  I  trust  I  have  committed  no  wrong  against  any  ; 
that  in  what  I  have  "  set  down  "  I  have  been  guided  by  love  and  charity  to  all — as 
I  shall  answer  to  Grod  and  those  of  whom  I  write  :  those  who  have  sown  in  Hope 
that  they  might  reap  in  Joy. 

I  have  felt— perhaps  too  much— the  solemnity  and  responsibility  of  my  self- 
imposed  task.  I  cannot  expect  my  readers  to  share  that  with  me  to  the  full ;  but  I 
do  humbly  hope  I  have  contributed  something  to  the  future  of  their  happiness 
by  enabling  them  better  to  comprehend  and  more  thoroughly  to  enjoy  the  great 
Authors  whose  Works  will  be  the  glories  of  our  Country  to  the  end  of  Time. 


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